Chapter 1 #2
I glance over at my rescuer as he hands me my little leather backpack and grabs the handle of my rolling suitcase.
He’s the guy from before, the one I remembered but couldn’t place.
Except now that he’s closer, I can see his features clearly: dark chocolate–colored hair, mussed in a fashionable way where you can’t tell if it’s deliberate or if he really did just roll out of bed; light olive skin; full lips surrounded by the kind of stubble that manages to be ever-present yet has zero aspirations of becoming an actual beard.
And I’d never forget those eyes in a million years—one blue-gray, one cognac brown, staring from behind round, tortoiseshell glasses.
I’ve definitely had those mismatched eyes focused on me before.
“Yeah, sure.” I hug my backpack—and Mrs. Nash—to my chest and mutter a quick, “Nice to meet you,” to the fan, even though it wasn’t nice to meet him at all.
“Sorry to interrupt, man,” my new companion calls out as he guides me away. Then he adds in a hurry as if he just can’t help himself, “But also, hey, learn some fucking appropriate boundaries maybe.”
The memory comes together like a time-lapse video of a jigsaw puzzle.
The crisp, late-September air on my face, chilling my tears as they tumbled down my cheeks.
The whooshing sound of city traffic that replaced the restaurant’s hubbub as I stepped outside into the night.
A man’s voice— this man’s voice—reaching out of the dark, asking, Hey, you okay?
Hollis Hollenbeck. From my ex’s MFA cohort.
One of those fancy literary friends Josh talked about and constantly compared himself to but rarely let me interact with beyond hasty introductions and quick hellos at parties.
Hollis was there that horrible night eight months ago, leaning against the brick wall beside the restaurant’s entrance, the light from the old-timey lantern suspended above him highlighting the different colors of his eyes.
Now, Hollis leads me to the row of chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows as a plane zooms down the runway in the distance.
His blue duffel bag waits in front of the seat he vacated to save me.
I consider joking about how he must have missed the last twenty years of PSAs about not leaving your bags unattended in an airport, but instead I say, “Thank you. That was getting... gross.” I am grateful, of course, for his intervention.
But I also can’t ignore the tiny twinge of shame deep in my stomach, as if part of me feels like what that guy said is somehow my fault, that I should have shut it down or prevented it or been able to walk away without Hollis’s assistance.
“Getting? Dude rocketed past gross and was well on his way to abhorrent.” The look on his face is almost comical, the way his mouth droops into a perfectly symmetrical arch. Like a postcard of St. Louis.
“Hey. I know you, don’t I?” I say.
His thick eyebrows raise in question. “Do you?”
“You know Josh Yaeger, right?” Somehow my smile stays perky and unaffected by the name coming out of my mouth.
“Yeah. And you... also know Josh.”
He doesn’t say it like “Wow this is so awkward because you dated my friend for three years and probably would be engaged to him right now if he hadn’t betrayed your trust.” It’s more of an “I can only guess that’s why you know me, but I really have no clue who you are.
” So maybe he wasn’t looking at me because he remembered me after all.
“Um. He and I were together for a while,” I say.
“Right.”
“Back in September... at Josh’s book release party at that restaurant in Georgetown. You drove me home,” I explain, hoping to jog his memory. “So I probably owe you a thanks for that too.”
“Oh. Did we...?” He waves a finger back and forth between us.
“What? No. You didn’t even come upstairs, just waited to make sure I got inside okay then left.”
“Then you must be mistaken. That doesn’t sound like me.”
I don’t understand the game he’s playing here, why he’s fighting against my good impression of him. “Well, from the little I know, helping a woman out of an unpleasant situation sounds very much like you.”
“No way.” He shakes his head. “I never do anything out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Then what was that a minute ago?”
“Purely selfish. If I had to listen to another word about that guy’s wet dreams, a tidal wave of vomit would’ve escaped my mouth and swallowed up this terminal.”
The mental image of that makes me chuckle, but his expression remains serious. “Whatever,” I say. “Regardless, I’d like to thank you somehow, both for today and for that night.”
I immediately regret the open-endedness of my offer as his eyebrows raise again, but he eventually shakes his head. “Not necessary. Like I said, I was just being selfish. Now, not to be rude, but I went over there to stop a conversation, not get roped into a new one. So if you’ll excuse me...”
Hollis navigates around his bag and sinks into the chair.
He pulls a clicky black pen and a small red spiral-bound notebook from the front pocket of his duffel.
By the way he focuses on the pages as he scribbles something down, it’s clear he does not intend to pay me any further attention.
Which is fine, because he’s kind of being a dick.
I stand there, searching the terminal for somewhere I can go to leave Hollis alone without the creeper taking it as an invitation to resume our conversation.
There are about a dozen airline staff huddled around the little desk (which, frankly, seems excessive, but what do I know?).
Perhaps if I sit close to them, I’ll blend in with the hustle and bustle. ..
Hollis lets out a heavy sigh and looks up at me. I stare back. He moves his eyes from me to the chair beside him repeatedly, wordlessly directing me to take a seat and stop annoying him.
I have to admit, remaining in Hollis’s little bubble of protection and apparent exasperation isn’t a hardship.
Especially now that I’m sitting beside him and I can tell that he smells really good.
Comforting. Like the scent version of reading your favorite book in a worn leather chair with a cup of Earl Grey tea while rain patters against the windowpane.
“Although, cinnamon rolls,” he says abruptly.
“What?”
I’m about to tell him that, while delicious, those don’t really fit with the vibe of the scene I’m imagining when he says, “I accept payment in the form of cinnamon rolls.” Hollis nods toward the Cinnabon stand near our gate.
“You want me to buy you a cinnamon roll?”
“Yes. No—actually, two of them.” In response to my raised eyebrow, he says, “Hey, according to you, I’ve helped you out twice. So two cinnamon rolls and we’ll call it even.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile on my face again.
I’m not sure one dessert per good deed is the correct exchange rate, but if that’s what will make Hollis feel appreciated, that’s what he shall receive.
Besides, I’m really not buying this “Oh, I’m just selfish” act of his.
I bet he’s a secret cinnamon roll himself; he’s just hiding it underneath a thick layer of. .. burnt toast for some reason.
After making my purchase and getting the name of the artist who did the cashier’s extremely cool mermaid tattoo in case I ever get over my fear of needles, I return to Hollis with a massive stack of napkins and a Cinnabon box in each hand.
He’s still sitting in front of the windows, his expression that of someone who would never say harumph but is constantly thinking it.
“Here you go,” I say, holding out the containers. “Thanks again.”
But he only takes the fork and one cinnamon roll, leaving the other still in my possession.
“What about the—”
“I don’t like eating alone,” he says, lazily waving the fork toward the seat to his left. “Sit.”
“Um. Thank you.” I lower into the chair beside him, then spring back up. “Oh, but I only grabbed one—”
Hollis hands me the black plastic fork, stands, and places his container on his chair. A minute later he returns with another fork and settles back in beside me.
Again, I’m struck by the strange juxtaposition of his personality. He’s not very nice, and yet he’s so kind .
“I’m Millicent,” I say, realizing he probably doesn’t remember my name. “Most people call me Millie.”
“Millicent. Right.” He digs his fork into his cinnamon roll. “I’m Hollis. Hollis Hollenbeck.”
“I know.”
He raises his fork, topped with a giant bite that’s mostly icing. “Cheers,” he says, barely making eye contact before he shoves it into his mouth. For someone so grumpy, he’s awfully cute.
We’re quiet for a while as we eat. Well, quiet except for the occasional satisfied hum from Hollis. Then he asks me to hand him a napkin, and I figure it’s as good an opening as any to start a conversation.
“So you’re headed to Miami?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says around a mouthful of cinnamon roll.
“For business or pleasure?”
“Both.” I think that’s all I’m going to get, but after he finishes chewing, he continues, “I promised my agent a finished draft of my new project by the end of next month, but, uh, I can’t seem to get words on the page lately.
So I’m hoping a week... relaxing with my, uh, friend will get me unstuck.
She’s been... helpful in the past. With relaxation. ”
I add up his “uh”s and pauses until they make sense. “You’re going to Miami for a sex appointment?”
“That’s not the expression I would use.” His eyes shift over to me for a moment before returning to the Cinnabon container. “But yes.”
“And you think that’ll cure your writer’s block?”
He puts down his fork and directs his full attention toward me for the first time since I sat down. I get a long and direct enough look at his eyes to notice that the cognac brown one isn’t actually all brown, just about 80 percent; there’s a bit of blue in the top right, like the sea meeting sand.