Feel It in the Air (Hayes Family #2)

1. Gus

1

GUS

My whole body deflates as I read the notification on my phone.

Flight 3184 to Atlanta Delayed—now departing 7:24

Delayed, again. Because of course it is.

Seven twenty-four. That’s another two fucking hours. Which makes this flight a grand total of four delayed. On top of the flight that was just flat-out canceled. At this rate, I’m never making it out of JFK airport.

Thunder claps loudly, drowning out the din of airport chaos for a second, reminding me and the thousands of my newest friends who are stranded here with me why we’re in this situation. Damn weather.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for safety first. Always. That’s a great rule to live by. I’d much rather be down here on the ground than up in some tin can given all this nastiness in the skies. I don’t care how well-trained these pilots are; we don’t need to test those skills. That doesn’t change the fact that I should be home by now. Should have been home hours ago. I’m more than a little restless, overtired, and ready for my own bed.

Not to mention, I left my newest employee stranded at the Atlanta airport. A fact that my sister is not going to let me live down. Even if it was out of my control.

I need a drink.

Pushing up from the small, cramped seat at my gate, I shove my phone in my pocket, trying my best not to disturb the people around me. We’re crammed in like sardines into this little area, all of us overly anxious to get the hell out of here. All the more reason I need some space. And a drink.

“Do you want me to save your seat? Or watch your things?”

I turn around, my eyes landing on a woman old enough to be my grandmother dressed in her Sunday best—pearls and all—looking up at me expectantly. I can tell by her accent that the flight to Atlanta is taking her home, and my insides soften a little toward her.

“No ma’am, I’m probably gonna be a bit. Need to stretch my legs.”

She nods solemnly, then places her purse in the spot I just occupied. “That’s fair. I might just tell people I’m holdin’ it for you anyway.”

I chuckle, liking the way she thinks. I give her another nod, then turn to go, in search of something to take the edge off. And maybe some food. I haven’t eaten since…well, now that I think about it, since breakfast. So we can add hangry to the list of negative emotions I’m experiencing.

If I remember correctly, there was a brewery down closer to my original gate, so I push through the crowd, heading back toward gate B44. Thunder claps again and someone behind me yelps, as if the storm raging outside somehow caught her off guard. I can’t help but roll my eyes, using that as motivation to walk faster. That is, until I feel the vibration against my leg and I’m suddenly filled with dread.

I reach for my phone, silently praying it’s not another notification from the airline. I know the weather isn’t their fault, that this falls into the act of God territory, but so help me, if this is another notification about a delay, or another cancelation, I will lose it. And I’m pretty sure that a jury of my peers won’t convict me. They will absolutely understand that my actions—whatever they end up being—were justifiable.

“I have never been so happy to see your name on my phone,” I answer, dodging a small child not watching where they are wheeling their backpack.

“Not sure how to take that,” my brother Huxley replies. Smack dab center in the lineup of seven kids, Hux is your stereotypical middle child—stubborn, non-conforming, and complicated—even if he's a little rough around the edges sometimes.

“Just that you’re not a notification telling me my flight is canceled. Unless that’s what you’re calling to tell me.”

“Nope, was calling to let you know I fixed the paper press so we don’t need to order a new one. You’re welcome.”

I stop, relief washing over me. No, not relief—it’s more than that. Complete and utter joy. Forget the bad travel day; that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.

“Seriously? How?”

“It’s long and complicated. You really wanna know?”

“No,” I tell him.

Because I don’t. Not only because I don’t care, but because I won’t understand. That’s what I have him for. Him and the rest of my siblings. Without them, there is no Hayes Industries, the Fortune 500 company that our family owns and operates out of our small Georgia town of Hickory Hills. Our father is still president and CEO, but I recently took on the title of executive vice president, with the plan that Auggie will soon be retiring and handing it all over to me.

Hence why I got to make this trip to New York solo to meet with customers and vendors for our guns and ammo division—the division I also still oversee until we can get someone to backfill the position—and am now stuck in this airport.

“Didn’t think so. Just be happy I saved you all that money.”

“Thrilled. Not spending thousands on your sorry outfit is making my day.”

Hux mutters something under his breath about how there isn’t anything “sorry” about the paper division, and for a second I think about asking him to repeat it, but then I think better of it. I’m not looking to start a fight. Poke at him, sure, but not actually fight. Especially when I know he’s right. The paper and logging business is solid. Everything about Hayes is. We’re a well-oiled machine. Sighing, I start to move again, scanning around to look for the brewery. My hunger is starting to fully register.

“So when are you getting home? Willa’s pretty pissed you ditched the new marketing chick.”

“I didn’t ditch Bronwyn,” I defend. “My flight was canceled. And at the rate I’m going, it’ll be three a.m. before I’m back there.”

Hux laughs. “Sucks to be you, dude. She got Noel Keller to pick Bronwyn up, but you’re in a world of hurt when you see Willa next.”

“I don’t control the weather.”

“Tell that to our sister.”

Good point. She might be a former Miss Georgia, but our baby sister is still the youngest of seven, and a spitfire if there ever was one. With six older brothers, you don’t grow up unable to defend yourself—physically or verbally .

“I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

How, I don’t know. One more thing to figure out while I sit here. Dodging another family—this one complete with Mickey ears—I spot the brewery up ahead, thankful that I didn’t make up its existence. Not that any of the other overpriced establishments that I’ve passed along the way wouldn’t have worked, but my mind has been set on beer that hopefully wasn’t mass-produced.

“Oh hey,” I say, the small eatery next to the brewery catching my attention. “There’s a Dollie’s here too. Although they spell it wrong.”

“How do you spell Dolly wrong?” Hux asks.

“They spell it with an ie.”

“Bet it’s not as good as ours.”

I nod, silently agreeing. It’s hard to beat the greasy spoon back home. Not only because it’s owned by Hux’s best friend since childhood, Dolly McLain, who took it over from her grandmother, but because it’s true Southern cooking. There’s just something about food off a griddle that has probably never been cleaned in your lifetime. Or ever.

Let’s not lie here—that griddle has never been cleaned.

“Alright, I’m hanging up on you. I found a brewery and I need a drink.”

“Sounds good. See ya whenever you make it back.”

I groan, hitting the end button without another word, the unnecessary reminder like a knife to the heart. Leave it to Hux. And he’s not even the instigator of the family. That’s Anton, the brother above him.

The restaurant is crowded—borderline overflowing—and the hostess has a snarl on her face that could turn milk. Part of me feels for the girl. I’m sure this is a miserable job on the best of days, much less on a day like today. Another part—the part that is currently dealing with her curt response of “if you find a spot just take it”—wants to tell her exactly where she can put that look of hers.

Yeah, I really need that drink.

I scan the tables, finding nothing. Pretty par for the course today. Really, I should have known better than to think a bar wasn’t going to be full with all of us grounded for hours. This is what I get for sitting at the gate like a hopeful newbie. I know better than that. At this point, my best option is probably to hop in the fast food line, grab a burger, and hope that older lady really did save my seat.

Tucking my tail between my legs, I give the place one last scan, ready to head out, when I see it. No, not it.

Her.

The air crackles around me, a hush falling over the roar that had been surrounding me. Sitting at the very far corner of the bar, dressed in dark jeans and a black blazer, her head bent over a book, is the most beautiful woman. Not to be dramatic about it, but there’s no taking my eyes off her.

I swallow hard, watching as she tucks a strand of the most beautiful dark red hair—the color of leaves on a perfect autumn afternoon—behind her ear, and I hope no one will ever know that I’m comparing her hair to trees. Or that every part of my forty-year-old self feels like I’ve been reduced to a preteen who just saw his first naked girl. Or that I have no idea what to call this weird combination of knees that feel like jelly and feet like cinderblocks that is preventing me from moving. All I know is that my pulse doesn’t know if it should speed up or slow down, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Holy shit…

And then, it gets better.

Shifting in her seat, she turns the page in her book, allowing me a glimpse. There is an open spot next to her.

As if the heavens opened up and the Lord himself called my name, I know what I need to do. If only I can make my legs work.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all it takes, right?

Weaving my way over there, I throw up a little prayer—okay, a great big one—that no one beats me to it. God must still be listening, because he parts the crowds the same way Moses parted the Red Sea, and I cross the crowded room in record time, steeling myself before asking a very simple question.

“That seat taken?”

And I’m ignored.

I blink, trying to figure out where I went wrong. But then I look at her again, and notice something I didn’t before. Her headphones. Okay, let’s try this again.

I lightly tap her shoulder and she jumps, flailing her arms outward. I jump back, trying to avoid being accosted.

“Sorry, just wondering if that seat is taken,” I say again.

Removing one of her headphones, she flashes me a polite smile, making her green eyes shine, reminding me of traffic lights in the night sky.

Wow, I really need to find better things to compare her beauty to. Traffic lights and trees are not the way to woo her…

“That depends.”

“On?”

She narrows her eyes at me, scanning up and down my body, assessing me. I rock backward, allowing her the opportunity, almost enjoying the feel of her gaze on me. It also gives me the chance to return the gesture, and even though she’s sitting, I know I like what I see.

“Do you plan on selling me something, askin’ about my relationship with the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, or mansplainin’ anything to me in any way?”

Her face is dead serious as they come, her sweet Southern accent filling my veins with excitement. The specifics of her drawl are hard to place thanks to all the background noise—Louisiana if I had to guess—but there’s no doubt that she’s turned it up to make sure I know it’s there. So I do the same.

“No, ma’am,” I say, keeping the Georgia nice and thick. “I have nothing to sell, I will just trust that your relationship with the Lord is what you want it to be, and I know better than to mansplain. I have a younger sister.”

Her fa?ade cracks, a giggle bubbling to the surface, making all of her light up. The smile that spreads across her face puts that polite one from a moment ago to shame, and for a second, my heart skitters. It’s as if my answer flipped a switch inside her, opening the door to the secret back room where the party is held.

Holy shit…

“Then no, this seat is not taken,” she replies, shifting to remove her bag from it.

Yes!

I slide around her, dropping my bag at our feet and hopping up onto the stool. She turns to me and smiles, and I search for something—anything—to say. I need this to be good. Smooth. I only get one chance at this.

But then she beats me to it.

“I take it being stuck at JFK was not on your bingo card today either?”

“It was not.”

She nods in understanding. Because if there is anything that is going to bring us together right now, it’s this shared experience. Which means I need to keep the conversation going. Need to ask her a question. Something about herself. Get her talking. That way I can find out more about her.

“Where you headed to?” she asks, taking up the conversational burden I’ve failed to.

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

The answer tumbles out of me faster than I can stop it. I have to admit, it’s a smooth line. One that in any other situation I’d be damn proud of myself for coming up with. Right about now, however…

She scoffs, eyes widening and mouth agape, clearly taken aback. Only, she’s still smiling. So, maybe she’s not that put off.

“I should have included hitting on me in my list,” she laughs. “And awfully bold considering you don’t even know my name yet.”

“Sorry, that was incredibly forward.” I hold out my hand, hoping that she takes it as a sign of goodwill. “I’m Gus.”

“Hi Gus. I’m Mar-o.”

A clap of thunder cuts her off, and I only catch the first part of her name, plus an o at the end. My brain scrambles, trying to put something together. Marlo, I think. At least, that’s the only woman’s name that I can come up with that starts with Mar and ends with o. I don’t want to ask again and make it sound like I wasn’t listening—we're already having to half shout to be heard as it is.

So I do what any red-blooded American man would do. I opt to simply not use her name.

“Nice to meet you. Can I buy you a drink?”