Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Alex
I’m pacing the tiny Hartwell airport like an expectant father in the waiting room after his wife’s been in labor for what feels like three days straight.
Mom picked me up from the airport earlier and drove me home, chattering about everything happening with the family and around Hollybrook. Her enthusiasm over Finley’s arrival is cautious, but I expect that’ll change the moment she meets her.
Traffic into Hollybrook was brutal, so it took longer to get home than it took for the flight from Boston to Hartwell.
I had barely dropped my suitcase in the entryway and ate the snack Mom insisted on feeding me, before she shoved the Wagoneer keys into my hand and sent me back to the airport.
Dad was at work, and Mom said Tyler and Mallory were finishing some last-minute Christmas shopping, but everyone will be home when I arrive with Finley.
Everyone except Grant and Eloise, who won’t be arriving until late afternoon on Christmas Eve.
I’m suddenly having major second thoughts, but I keep telling myself I’ll feel better once she gets here and the introductions are over.
Finley’s arriving several hours after me.
I couldn’t get her on any of my flights, and I was lucky to snag her the last available seat out of Atlanta today, but it arrives three hours later than mine.
My original plan had been to meet her at Boston Logan so we could take the commuter flight together to Vermont.
But her flight got in too late to make my connection, and when I checked the two remaining flights to Hartwell, each only had one seat available.
She texted that she made it to Boston okay, then followed up that her commuter flight was delayed thirty minutes.
I’ve probably asked the airport manager over a dozen times for status updates.
He’s clearly annoyed, but my anxiety keeps ratcheting higher.
I’m not ordinarily anxious, and it’s been six years since I’ve felt this out of control.
I didn’t handle it well back then, so I never learned any tricks I could use for handling it now.
I’m just about to ask again when the manager gives me a weary look. “The plane’s landing now.” Then he points to the window overlooking the two-runway tarmac.
The aircraft touches down then rolls to the terminal. A gentle snow is falling, and my first thought is how much Finley will love it.
The thought catches me off guard. Sure, part of our bargain is that I make sure she gets her full dose of Hollybrook Christmas magic, but once she’s here, it technically isn’t my job to guarantee she has a good time.
And yet, ever since I’ve landed in Vermont, I’ve been looking at everything through her eyes.
I keep having flickers of excitement at how she’ll react, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
But we are friends. And friends want the best for each other. That’s all. That’s enough.
There’s no security at this airport, so I walk up to the glass to watch for Finley.
The plane door swings open, the steps are rolled into place, and passengers begin filing out.
Enough people get off that I wonder if Finley changed her mind and caught a flight back to Atlanta.
Just when I’m about to text her—what, I don’t know, because did you change your mind?
doesn’t seem like the brightest idea—she appears at the top of the steps.
She freezes, glancing around the snowy tarmac, and her whole face lights up with wonder. Something swells in my chest, stealing my breath.
What the hell is that?
Probably relief? She’s here, and she looks happy and excited. That’s a solid start. The happier she is, the more likely she’ll want to stay.
A man practically twice her size exits the plane behind her, barreling down the steps. When they hit the asphalt at nearly the same time, he shoves her aside in his hurry.
I see red—not just because he laid a hand on her, but because that sparkle in her expression dims.
Passengers file into the building, but the guy charges for the exit. On impulse, I block his path.
“What the hell, man?” he snaps.
“You just shoved my girlfriend when you were getting off the plane,” I bite out.
“She was too damn slow. I’ve got places to be.”
“It’s her first time here. She’s never seen snow like this.” My fists clench at my sides. “Your rudeness might have ruined it for her.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know how ridiculous they sound. What the hell is wrong with me? I’d blame it on jetlag, but Vermont is in the same time zone as Atlanta.
To my surprise, the man’s face softens.
“Sorry, man. My kid’s sick. I need to get to the hospital.”
Now I feel like an ass. “Sorry,” I mutter, but he’s already running for the exit.
I’m about to examine why I felt the need to accost the guy, when I turn and see Finley coming through the door.
Snowflakes cling to her long, dark waves, and the ivory cardigan she’s wrapped in makes her hair look even darker.
It throws me off since she always wears it up at the coffee shop.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and her eyes bright as she scans the tiny lobby.
The second she spots me, a huge smile breaks across her face. My stomach drops like I’ve just gone over the edge of a rollercoaster.
Okay, now what the hell is that?
Nerves. Just nerves. Relief that she’s here and not shaken by that jerk. But I know in my gut that’s not the only reason.
Finley’s breathtakingly, intoxicatingly, agonizingly beautiful.
I don’t have the first clue what to do with that. She’s made it very clear this is platonic. But there’s no time to figure it out, because she’s already walking toward me.
Get yourself under control, Alex. Act normal.
“How was your flight?” I ask like I’m a chauffeur making polite conversation rather than a guy greeting his fake girlfriend. I mentally pat myself on the back for keeping it professional. And platonic.
“Good,” she says, some of the shine fades from her eyes, and I know immediately that my stiff tone is to blame. The last thing I want to do is steal her joy. I need to shove these feelings down. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve got six years of practice, shoving feelings into the cellar of my heart.
Only now the hinges are starting to bulge.
This whole thing is a huge mistake.
Maybe I’ve built up this attraction. I’ve been rereading our text exchange from the night we hashed out the details.
Finley’s more charming—and funnier—than I realized.
That, combined with how beautiful she is, mixed in with my shaky nerves over being home…
I’ve probably just latched onto the thought of her being my girlfriend. I need to remember this isn’t real.
But seeing the look on her face now, I want to rewind the past minute and try again.
Too late for that now, asshole.
She glances around the lobby. “Do you know where I get my luggage?”
Disappointment hits me like a baseball to the chest. Maybe she hadn’t been scanning the room for me. She’d been looking for a luggage carousel.
“Yeah,” I glance toward the door to the tarmac. “Give me a second, and I’ll get it for you.”
“You don’t have to—” But I’m out the door before she can finish. Partially because I don’t want to argue, but mostly because I need a second to get my head on straight.
I hurry over to the plane where two men are unloading bags. I recognize one of them from when I was waiting, and he gives me a smirk. “You must really be in a hurry to get your girlfriend home.”
His innuendo gets under my skin, but I shove it aside. “Yeah. Something like that.”
As they snicker and get back to tossing bags, I realize I have no idea what her suitcase looks like.
I’m an idiot.
I pull my phone out of my coat pocket and see that she’s already sent a text.
Green suitcase with a pink ribbon
I scan the pile and freeze. There’s no way…
An avocado-green, hard-shell suitcase stands off to the side, perched on metal feet instead of wheels, like it’s been dropped out of a black-and-white film.
A pink ribbon dangles from the handle, as though she’d confuse it in a sea of black roller bags.
I check the luggage tag anyway and confirm it’s hers.
Samsonite is stamped on the metal under the handle.
Where did she even get this thing? From one of her elderly neighbors? Her mother?
At first glance, it seems impractical, but from what I know of Finley, she isn’t. The contradiction gives me pause, because the case feels like something she would carry.
Why do I feel like there’s a story here? Just like there’s a story about her attorney’s retainer.
And more importantly, why do I want to know it?
Once I’m inside, she hurries toward me, reaching for her suitcase. “I can take it from here.”
Like hell I’m letting her. I shift the bag out of reach. “What kind of boyfriend would I be to let you carry your bag?” I mean it as a joke, but it comes out rougher than I intended.
Her lips part. “But I’m not—” She stops, her light dimming. “I guess it’s time to play my part.”
Something twists in my chest. She makes it sound like pretending to be with me is a burden.
Maybe we should have spent some time together before this.
I thought our banter in the coffee shop and the text messages would be enough, but obviously I didn’t think this through.
I didn’t think any of this through, and now a woman I barely know has flown to Vermont to pretend to be my girlfriend.
What the hell was I thinking?
I force a smile. “You don’t have to look so distraught about the idea of me being your boyfriend.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, no—that’s not it!” A flush creeps up her cheeks. “Any woman would be lucky to have you as a boyfriend. I’m just worried I’ll mess up.”
I shouldn’t feel so relieved, and my fifth appendage shouldn’t be so excited. But then I realize she didn’t say she’d be lucky. Just any woman.