Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Mia
"Wow. How did you know lychee martinis are my favorite?"
I take the offered drink and lean back against the soft cushion of the sunbed, stretching my legs to show them off in the short, colorful sarong that matches the tropical flowers growing in the distance. Over the salty scent of ocean water and sand, I catch a whiff of something familiar.
I eye the other drinks on the waiter's tray. "What's that delicious smell?"
"What smell?" he asks in a low, raspy voice that I strain to hear.
Realizing none of the fruit-colored drinks on the tray could possibly be making such a wood-based scent, I know that smell must be the waiter.
My eyes travel up beyond the tray, taking in muscular arms with veins that flex as I stare.
In a few more seconds, I'll reach his face and finally see who that delicious scent belongs to.
"I knew I would find you," I tell him, batting my eyelashes. Just a little higher and–
A blaring ringtone rouses me from the best nap of my life, and I let out an emotion-laden groan. Dream me couldn't possibly know who that scent belongs to, but I can't help feeling like I missed out by being woken up before the big reveal.
The face in my dreams could have been the real deal, for all I know. A little helpful hint from fate to help me find the mystery man I've been pining over nonstop for days.
I rub my cheek against the coat I’ve been using as a pillow.
My boss, Quinn, recently suggested taking the coat to The Scent Vault to see if they could replicate the coat’s scent since it’s been steadily fading over the past months, despite my efforts to preserve the coat in protective plastic until recently.
I knew the idea was a long shot, but that didn’t stop me from being heartbroken when it didn’t work.
Why did I wait so long to tell anyone the full story about the coat in the first place?
Oh, that's right, because I didn't want to admit to everyone what a complete psychopath I am. I told my bestie, Belle, the gist of the mix-up with Jason as soon as she was willing to hear me out, but I left out some key details.
Like the part where I went on a hysterical rant, promising to curse Jason for eternity for stealing a coat that didn't belong to him.
Jason remained impressively calm while explaining over and over that the coat was left behind from a different flight than the one he piloted, and that a flight attendant insisted he wear it upon realizing he had no coat of his own that night, as a surprise snowstorm raged.
A somewhat reasonable explanation that only left me even more worked up at the time.
When a bouncer showed up to intervene, I finally made a mature choice to stop yelling... and snatch the coat up for myself.
That's right. I stole the stolen coat, running off into the night with the delicious-smelling garment, and leaving Mr. Pilot Face with no coat yet again.
As a scent-match for the coat's mystery owner, the coat definitely belonged more to me than to Jason.
So, I justified that it made complete sense that the coat should go home with me and remain under my jurisdiction until I could come up with a plan to find the rightful owner.
Yes. Yes, I am still mildly embarrassed.
I can never show my face in that bar again.
Luckily, Quinn is now out of town for a personal matter, which means I've gotten away with claiming I'm working from home the past few days.
My email inbox is probably bursting at the seams by now.
I'm too scared to check. All I've been able to do since coming home from The Scent Vault is wallow on the couch with my face buried in my beloved coat.
The incessant ringing gives up for a moment, sparing my eardrums, before starting up again.
"Whose phone is that?" I call out to the apartment, then remember I haven't shared a living space in years.
Not since college, unless you count the three-week stint that my twin brother, Milo, spent living on my sofa when his last girlfriend dumped him for being more interested in March Madness than meeting her family.
Either the ringing phone belongs to me, or I need to grab the baseball bat I keep beside my bed and prepare to defend myself against an intruder sorely lacking in stealth.
So far today, I've only gotten off the couch for bathroom breaks and a snack run to the kitchen, which I'm pretty sure counts as exercise.
The rest of my time has been spent binge-watching holiday romcoms that I missed last Christmas because I was so busy at work.
I remember having my phone at some point after my snack run because I looked up the scent of an actor I thought was awfully attractive.
Grapes. Who smells like grapes? I wonder if he'll smell like wine when he gets older and inevitably turns into a total silver fox babe.
The damn phone stops ringing briefly, then restarts again.
Someone is really desperate to get hold of me. I hope everything is okay at the office, because I really don't want to put on real pants. I glance down the length of my body at the pajama pants with the space ship pattern that Milo gave me for our last birthday as a joke.
That's what I get for giving him a set of coordinated sex toys for last year’s birthday. In return, he held on tightly to a one-off joke I made about how the products are so good they would keep selling themselves if Quinn ever got sick of me and shipped me off to outer space.
I writhe around on the couch, shoving my hands into all of the usual nooks and crannies where my phone likes to hide, but my search comes up empty. The last thing I want to do is get up to search, and I swear the damn thing is too loud to be ringing in another room.
"Come out of your hidey hole, phone!" I shout frustratingly into the void.
As my search grows more desperate, I miscalculate my distance from the edge of the couch and go careening over the side. I splatter like bird poop on the floor of my living room, glaring up at the ceiling as my limbs try to remember how to function like a normal human being.
Why does the ringing sound louder down here?
I turn my head to the side and see the glint of my sparkly phone case peeking out from beneath the couch. "How the heck did you get down there?" I ask while snatching the phone out from underneath my former post and simultaneously cursing myself for not silencing the dang thing.
I don't even bother to check who's calling before answering with a breathless, "Hello?"
"Mia!" my brother screeches my name in an unusual pitch that would be hilarious if he didn't sound so panicked. "Finally! Why haven't you been picking up?"
Pushing myself upright helps to make me feel like I'm taking his call more seriously.
"I'm so sorry, I'm at work and was in a very serious work meeting with my boss to talk about, uhm, work.
" A little white lie is totally permissible at a time like this, right?
"Why? What's wrong? Are you hurt? What hospital are you at?
Or police station? You know I would never judge you, but I would prefer to know in advance if I need to be your alibi.
Blink once for no, twice for yes. And do it loudly, so I can hear your blinking through the phone. "
"Please pause your rambling long enough to listen," Milo begs, his voice growing even more urgent.
"Okay, okay. I'm listening." In fact, I press my lips together as tightly as possible to keep any more words from spilling out.
Sometimes I babble in high-stakes scenarios.
I'm not actually the best person to call in an emergency unless the emergency has to do with an under-performing sex toy, in which case I'm definitely your gal.
Shit, I'm supposed to be listening.
I tune back in just as my brother concludes with, "That means he's stuck in the bathroom for the foreseeable future, and the studio doesn't have anyone available that could get here fast enough to film me for the live half-time update.
That's why I'm calling you, Mia. I need someone who can get to the stadium in time to film me when the Sloths go to halftime.
Otherwise, I won't even be able to blame the studio for firing me because I'm the one who thought it was a good idea to feed my camera guy gas station hotdogs thirty minutes before game time! "
"Don't you dare get fired from your job because I don't think I could survive you staying on my couch again," I warn.
I'm already rising to my feet with the newfound energy of a twin whose sibling is in need of a superhero-worthy assist. "You know I would do anything for you, Milo. Just tell me when and where to be."
"Oh, thank fuck," he mumbles under his breath.
"Your office is a twelve-minute walk from the stadium, and by my estimate, we'll be going to halftime in about twenty minutes, so I need you to leave now.
I'll text you the exact location of the gate where I'll meet you with press credentials for the game. "
"Twenty minutes?" I repeat with dread, eyes widening with horror as the consequences of my white lie hit much faster than expected.
Sure, my office is a twelve-minute walk from the stadium.
My apartment, on the other hand, is more like twenty minutes away. And that's if you travel by a steady jog or a slow run, neither of which I consider preferred activities. I'm not even sure I have the right shoes for such activities.
Milo doesn't seem to register my panic. "Make sure to bring your coat. The wind isn't as brutal on the field, but the temperature drop after sundown is a killer. Thank you, Mia! I owe you one!"
"Wait, Milo, I might need a little more..." I trail off as I realize he already hung up.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
What the hell am I going to do? His request would be perfectly reasonable if I were actually at work like he expected me to be.
My brother is one of my best friends, second only to Belle, who ranks first solely on the basis that she's more fun to gossip with.
The last thing I want to do is let him down, no matter how pitiful I currently feel on the inside.
Glancing down, I remember I'm looking pretty pathetic on the outside, too, but there's absolutely no time to waste picking out the perfect outfit.
Shoes.
There might not be time to make myself more presentable, but I do need footwear that won't cause me to sprain an ankle on the way to the stadium. To get to Milo for half-time, I'm going to have to–I hate to even think the word–run.
I rush to the entryway closet and drop to my knees to dig through my accumulation of shoes that have been deemed unworthy of a place in my bedroom closet.
For once, fate smiles upon me, and I quickly come up for air triumphantly in possession of a pair of bright white sneakers in unworn condition.
They look a little silly when I lace them up over my fuzzy, striped socks, but I'm dedicated to choosing function over form on this singular occasion.
Love for my brother spurs me on as I spare a few precious seconds to grab three necessities: my phone, keys, and the coat I can't bear to leave behind.
My outfit is a complete disaster, with the fuzzy socks, space ship pajama pants, food-stained college sweatshirt, and hair pulled up in a tangled knot on top of my head. No one is going to think twice about the fact that I'm also wearing an oversized men's coat.