“I think so,” she says, barely making eye contact. “I’ll have to count.”

  I watch as she navigates her way back to the table she’s claimed, past those same couple of assholes who glare at her when she accidentally bumps their chairs, never mind the fact that one guy’s suitcase is still in the middle of the only available walking area, and now it’s fallen over so no one can even see it until they trip on it. A random surge of anger runs through me at the way they look at her like she’s the problem.

  Unable to tear my eyes away, I continue to watch as she puts the presents on her table. She looks so frazzled, and I can’t help but wonder if her flight was delayed, too. Her long fingers point up one at a time as she appears to go through a mental checklist, making sure all the gifts are accounted for. She gnaws on her bottom lip as she picks up the ripped bag and inspects it to see if it can be fixed.

  That’s when an idea hits me out of the blue.

  “Hey, excuse me,” I call out, flagging down the unlucky bartender who is still here and now gets to deal with a packed house of frustrated, stranded travelers.

  She does her best to plaster a smile on her face. “Need another?”

  “No. Well, yes. But what I really need is to see if you have a to-go bag. A large one.”

  She looks a little surprised by my request. I haven’t ordered any food so I’m sure she’s wondering why I need a doggy bag. “Let me see what we have in the back. I don’t have any up here.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn back to my fellow passenger and catch her expression the moment she realizes there is nothing that can be done about the bag she was carrying. With a frustrated puff of breath, she picks up a backpack, it looks almost like a computer bag, and starts inspecting the presents, clearly trying to see if any of them will fit without crushing the gift. Considering how square they are, it’s doubtful.

  Fortunately, the bartender returns with exactly what is needed. “Will this do?” She holds it up for my inspection.

  It’s huge and white and says “Airport Bar and Grill” on the side in blazing blue letters.

  “It’s perfect, thank you.”

  She hands me another beer, as originally requested and I hand her two twenties, tipping her as much for the bag as for the beer.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  She nods and gives me a real smile this time as she rings up my order and shoves the change in her apron.

  Grabbing my duffle and the bag in one hand, beer in the other, I leave my stool and purposefully maneuver around the same group of assholes I saw before.

  When I bump into one of the chairs, one of the douchebags cusses.

  “The fuck?”

  I glare down at him, daring him to get in my face. As soon as he looks up and sees my size, he backs down.

  “You need to move your bag out of the aisle before someone hurts themselves and sues your ass.”

  His eyes widen and he immediately rights his suitcase, moving it toward the wall.

  That’s what I thought. Asshole should learn some respect for other people and maybe I’d apologize. But I don’t.

  Instead, I approach the table where the beautiful woman is still struggling.

  She doesn’t even notice when I place my beer on the table, until I hold up the large plastic bag. “Will this work?” I offer it to her.

  “What?” she asks, a bit startled by my intrusion.

  I point at the gifts. “Will this work? To carry the presents.”

  She blinks up at me, the expression in her wide, blue eyes shifting from one of frustration to delight. And then she smiles, and the breath is knocked right out of me.

  “Oh,” she says, and then seems to process what I’m saying. “Oh! Oh yes. Thank you.”

  Our fingers graze when she takes it from my hand and a tiny electrical charge goes through me. It’s not much, but enough to make me wonder if there’s a lot of static electricity in the air or if I’m dreaming.

  Must be the latter. It’s too humid here for electricity to hang out in the air.

  “Do you mind if I sit?”

  She blinks again but finally nods. “If you can find a chair. There aren’t a lot of empty seats, are there?”

  “I guess not.” The one I just vacated at the bar is already filled again. Makes me wonder if a lot of flights out have been delayed today and how many are going to Chicago.

  Thankfully the douchebags I’ve already stared down pick this moment to leave so I’m able to snag a chair.

  The woman, though, the one I’m probably paying too much attention to in the airport, she carefully places all the gifts inside the bag, and gives a small sigh of relief that they fit and she has a way to carry everything again. “Thank you for the bag. Again.”

  “What happened to the other one? Besides the rip, I mean.” We sit down and settle in, me still having another thirty minutes or so before boarding. I don’t know about her yet.

  “My first one tore when I went through security. My nephew’s present was completely unwrapped when it came through the machine,” she begins to ramble. It’s cute. I like it. “Like, I can just imagine what it looked like when a tiny part of wrapping got stuck and it just ripped everything off, leaving my present naked on the conveyer belt.”

  I bark out at laugh, the visual image she paints strangely vivid.

  “Anyway, I was able to get a new bag, but when I tripped over that guy’s suitcase” —she tosses a glare his direction. Not that he can see since he’d left already— “this one ripped, too.”

  “Oh man, that’s too bad. About your nephew’s present I mean. Nobody wants to be left naked on the conveyer belt,” I say with a smile.

  She blinks again, her long lashes fluttering against her peaches and cream skin. She’s stunning. It’s not why I helped her, of course. I’d like to believe I would have gotten her a bag even if she looked like the wicked witch, but it doesn’t hurt that she’s so beautiful.

  “Did you check any of the stores? Maybe see if they have some wrapping paper?”

  “I did. No one has any.”

  “What?” That actually surprises me. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

  She puts her hand out, palm up and leans in. “Right? That’s what I said. Surely I can’t be the only one this has happened to.”

  “Seems like they could make a killing off over-priced specialty wrapping paper at the airport. Maybe with little cartoon pictures of Santa on the beach.”

  “Or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer snorkeling,” she adds.

  “A palm tree covered in Christmas lights.”

  “With presents at the bottom and people in bikinis and Santa hats.”

  As our random ideas peter out, we grin at each other, happy to have found a kindred spirit in all this mess.

  Or at least I am. Helping someone with their Christmas present issue is a hell of a lot more fun than helping when someone passes out at a bar.

  Chapter Six

  Sloan

  I don’t know why I let him sit down. Maybe it’s because he went out of his way to get me a replacement bag, a heavyweight plastic one that’s harder to rip at that. Maybe it’s because, of all the people in this bar, he was the best option to share with. Maybe it’s because he’s super hot, with dirty blond hair that’s just a little too long and curls down by his collar, piercing brown eyes, and a very large frame that he clearly takes care of, as accented by the short sleeves that strain whenever his bicep contracts as he drinks.

  No matter what the reason is, he’s here now and it doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere any time soon. Neither am I. At least for the next half hour or so. Plus, for the first time since I arrived at this airport, I’m enjoying myself.

  As our conversation comes to a standstill, I clear my throat. “If our jobs don’t work out, we should start a wrapping paper company. I think we already found our first client right here in this airport.”

  “We’d make a killing.”

  He bites his bottom lip, and I know I should feel nervous about flirting with a guy I just met at the airport, but somehow it feels right. Like he’s one of the good ones. Plus, I’ll be leaving soon and with how much it costs to fly these days, unless he’s independently wealthy, I doubt he’ll follow me.

  “I’m Becker.”

  “Sloan,” I say, opting to give him my real name and not the fake one I use at the club with my girlfriends.

  “Where are you heading, Sloan?”

  He takes a sip of his drink, and I can’t help but notice how his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

  What am I doing, ogling a stranger? Isn’t it some kind of sacrilegious thing to feel horny on Jesus’ birthday eve? I’m sure my mother would say so. She’d text a meme of Jesus side-eyeing me if she could read the things going through my brain.

  “Sloan?”

  I blink the nefarious thoughts out of my brain, embarrassed I lost track of our conversation.

  “Sorry. Got sidetracked thinking about wrapping paper.” And how nice it would be to have Becker under my tree with a bow on. I’m just gonna keep that part to myself. “I’m heading to Chicago to see my family.”

  Becker’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly. “No kidding. I’m heading there to see my Pops.”

  Now I understand how he ended up in this bar. “I take it you got delayed like I did?”

  He tips his glass at me. “It’s why I’m day drinking. I’m not usually a fan of beer so early in the morning but I got bored.”

  “Yeah, drinking during work hours is typically frowned upon at my job.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Financial aid for a local college.”

  Becker purses his lips in a small grimace. “Ooh. FAFSA and grants and shit.”

  His obvious distaste for the math involved in my job makes me smile. “It’s a lot of control in my hands,” I joke, wriggling my fingers. “I’m like the gatekeeper for higher education.”

  “Sounds powerful.”

  “It’s not,” I admit, turning serious. “Lots of paperwork and data entry. Lots of fielding questions from nervous parents. But I like it. I get to help these kids find the best way to pay for their education. It’s like I’m helping make a difference in their lives. Feels good.”

  “What made you decide to work in a college?”

  “Honestly, I fell into the job,” I admit. “The position opened up right after graduation and my advisor happened to tell me about it. I don’t want to say it was my dream job, but it uses my degree and keeps me living by the beach, so I can’t complain. Anyway, what about you? Are you doing your dream job?”

  With his build, I expect him to say he’s in construction or heavy-duty landscaping. Maybe a lumberjack. I don’t know if there even are lumberjacks in Florida, but just the thought of Becker shirtless and wielding an axe has me hot and bothered. Or maybe I’m just hot because I still have my coat wrapped around my middle.

  I slide it off and fold it over the back of my chair. Becker watches, with a strange look I can’t decipher on his face. His expression finally changes to one that looks like resolve.

  “I play hockey.”

  I pause. My blinking eyes are the only movement I make for a solid three seconds. Did he say what I think he said?

  “Professionally?” I finally ask like an idiot.

  Becker’s responding smile is sheepish, just a touch of color dotting his cheeks. “Yeah.”

  “Who for? Should I know the team?”

  “Uh, probably. I play offense for the Florida Glaze.”

  I groan and my head drops back dramatically. “Florida Glaze? I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to speak with you anymore. We are die hard Chicago Blaze fans in my family.”

  Becker holds his chest like he’s wounded. “I can’t believe a local woman would be traitorous to the hometown team.”

  “Nope. You can’t sway my loyalties,” I say with a shake of my head. “I bleed blue.”

  “How long have you been a fan?”

  “Oh gosh, my whole life.” Memories begin assaulting me from all the times we’ve been in the arena. “My dad was taking us to games for as long as I can remember. He’s not around anymore, but I swear he’s with us every time we go to that arena.”

  “I get that. Sometimes I swear I feel my mom on the ice with me.”

  “You lost your mom?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “When I was thirteen. You lost your dad?”

  “When I was ten. It’s weird that we can still feel them, right?”

  Becker shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe they just love hockey so much, they decide to join us sometimes.”

  “Wow. This conversation got really deep, really fast.”

  “I blame the beer and the boredom.”

  A giggle escapes me. A giggle! The sound even shocks me a bit as I am not a giggle kind of girl. “Do you guys get to play Chicago very often?”

  “A couple times a year.”

  “What do you think? Do you get a lot of jeers from us Blaze fans?”

  “It’s not terrible,” he admits. “The arena is nice and since our team names are so similar, we can’t really understand which team everyone is cheering for anyway. Means we don’t hear the insults either.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. Maybe make a sign so it’s more clear next time.”

  Becker laughs. It’s deep and rumbly and sexy as hell. “I hate to tell you, but we don’t read many of the signs either.”

  “You mean you guys don’t notice when a random fan proposes on a poster board? Bummer.”

  “Oh, those we see. So be careful who you propose to next time you’re there. I’ve got a few teammates who might just take you up on that offer.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “I’d never cheat on my team that way.”

  Becker taps his chest with his fist. “Wounded again. How will I ever survive this heartbreak?”

  “I think you’ll be fine. Our time is almost up since we’ll be boarding soon.” I pull out my phone to check the time. “It starts in about fifteen minutes. For me anyway. I don’t know what flight you’re on.”

  He opens his mouth to answer when my phone buzzes an alert. At the same time his does. And a few other people in the bar.

  We look at each other in disbelief and swipe open our phones at the same time to read the incoming texts.

  Flight 435 to Chicago has now been delayed as we wait for a new plane to arrive, due to a mechanical issue with the original plane. New boarding time is 2:32 pm.

  “Three more hours?” Becker says quietly before shoving his phone back in his pocket. I guess that clears up what flights we’re both on.

  “So much for racing through security,” I grumble, still pissed about my nephew’s gift and the lack of wrapping paper in this airport. “But at least they aren’t putting us on a broken airplane just to get us out of here.”

  “Good point.” Becker breathes out a deep sigh. “Welp, we could sit here all day or we could do a little more shopping. What do you say? Care to join me for some last-minute tchotchkes and snacks while we wait?”

  My lips quirk to the side as I tamp down a smile. “Only if you don’t try to trick me into buying an ugly Florida Glaze shirt.”

  Becker’s eyes light up at my ribbing. “No guarantees.”

  Chapter Seven

  Becker

  “Did you find anything good?” Sloan asks me from the other side of the Christmas display. Of all the places one would think you could find wrapping paper, this would be it. Hell, they’ve got Christmas themed eye masks for the plane. But wrapping paper? No.

  “I found the perfect ornament for your tree.” I hold up the glittery hockey stick-shaped Florida Glaze ornament.

  Her mouth drops open and nose crinkles in disgust. “I’m not putting that crap on my tree.”

  I slap my palm over my heart. “Why do you want to hurt me so badly?”

  She rolls her eyes and then her head disappears back around the display. “You’re a big strong hockey player. You can take it.”

  I put the ornament back, grabbing a Christmas hat and putting it on my head. “I do have a sensitive side, ya know.” Peeking around, I press the button on the hat, which starts swiveling around on my head, singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

  “Yeah, I can see you take things really seriously,” Sloan teases.

  “I can be sensitive and have a fun-loving side, ya know.”

  She huffs, amused by my antics. Or at least that’s how I choose to interpret it. “Is that what we’re calling being immature? Fun-loving?”

  “I’ll have you know I am very responsible. When I’m not stuck in the middle of a five-hour delay at the airport and bored out of my mind.”

  “I’ll give you that.” Sloan comes around to my side of the display, a neck pillow with mouse ears printed all over it wrapped around her neck. She grabs some sunglasses off the rack and begins trying them on. “You never stop to think about how little there actually is to do at an airport until you’re not racing for an airplane.”

  She heaves a heavy sigh and I know she’s probably feeling the same way I am—bored, but also anxious to get home to see her loved ones. I have the strangest urge to do whatever it takes to fix it for her.

  I put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze in support. At least I hope she takes it as supportive.

  “We’ll be there before you know it.”

  Sloan glances up at me, a half-smile on her lips. “It’s stupid to be worried about a few hours. I’m going to be there for several days, so it’s not like I’m missing much. I hope.”

  “Have you ever thought about moving back to Chicago to be closer to them?” I pick up a tacky T-shirt that says ‘Somebody in Tampa Loves Me’ and hold it up to my chest.

  Sloan flashes a quick smile at how ugly and cliché it is. “I think that’s too small for you.”

  “I was hoping it would highlight my stellar physique.”

 

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