Chris hesitated for a moment while we both stood there—him hard and glistening, and me weak kneed and soaked.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Thank you too.”
We both smiled a little awkwardly, and all the explosive chemistry of a few seconds ago seemed to dissolve into the air. It was for the best, I guessed. We both had made the terms of our little hookup crystal clear. He was mysteriously off the market in a few hours, and I was vow-bound to stop handing my heart to people who only knew how to break it.
I picked up my shredded panties and held them up for Chris to see. “You realize I don’t have a backup pair on the plane, right?”
“My logic left the building when you started taking off your clothes.”
I gave a small smile. I guess that was an acceptable apology.
We both left the restroom to dozens of pairs of accusatory eyes. I knew my hair was wild, even though I’d tried to tame it in the bathroom mirror. In my defense, it had been wild when I boarded the plane, too, but I doubt anyone made that distinction. Chris had just slid his hat back on, but we were both a little sweaty. Even though nobody could possibly know I wasn’t wearing panties, I felt incredibly dirty walking by so many people when I was still practically dripping wet and throbbing from what we’d just done.
We sat back in our seats, and Chris once again looked like he was about to say something. He faced me, then turned away again and plugged his headphones in again.
Just like that, the Chris Rose chapter of my life closed.
So why did I have a gut feeling that there was still more to the story?I slid into an Uber outside JFK airport back in New York. It was chilly, overcast, and by all accounts should’ve been a highly depressing return home. Except there was a buzzing, ill-advised hope still churning along inside me. I knew it was supposed to be meaningless, but there was no changing that I’d just had the best sex of my life in a cramped, gross airplane bathroom a mile above sea level. I’d also felt a sort of effortless connection with Chris, and that was the part I was scared of.
It’s what I did all too well. I gave my heart to the wrong people, and I was too stubborn to take it back even when everything in the world said I should. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The first man I see after Lance is the one my brain wanted to turn into Mr. Perfect.
My driver ended up right behind Chris’ SUV, which wasn’t doing wonders for my plan to stop thinking about him as soon as possible. We had talked on the flight back, almost as if nothing had happened. His “goodbye” had been a greedy fistful of my ass under my dress and a wink before we got off the plane. That was it.
It should’ve been simple. We both got what we apparently needed, and our lives would go on.
Except twenty minutes later, we were still directly behind Chris. It had the feeling of fate, even though I wasn’t a firm believer in that sort of thing. Could you really feel that kind of a connection with someone and have it just fizzle apart? Or was there some sort of universal magnetism two people could form—like an invisible rubber band that would only snap them together with more force the harder they tried to move apart?
My worry was ratcheted up a few decibels when I got out of my Uber only to see that Chris was walking into the same building I was. I could practically hear the cosmic snap of our rubber bands colliding.
I glanced up at Rose Athletic Representatives and felt the gears click into place for the first time. That last minute gig I’d accepted via a hasty email from my phone after the blow up in Texas? The wedding for some high-profile client I was planning to dive head-first into? The woman I’d been in contact with had been reaching out on behalf of Damon Rose. As in the brother of the guy I just had a one-time fling with on my flight. As in the guy who had mysteriously told me he was going to be off the market once he got back in New York.
I felt like I’d just had the twist at the end of a movie laden with hints revealed, and now my backtracking mind could see all the obvious clues I’d missed.
I followed him into the building in a daze, not quite wanting to let the full picture come together because I already instinctively knew I wasn’t going to like it.
I passed through the elaborate lobby that was practically a trophy case to show off Damon Rose’s success as an athletic agent. Every extravagance that could be bought appeared to have been purchased and put on display, from glistening, polished stone floors to the stern, almost humorously huge portrait of Damon Rose himself hanging behind the front desk.