But when I reach gate twenty-three, Hunter is nowhere to be found. I scan the seating area with eagle eyes, searching for the dark-haired Brit with the jawline that could carve . . . my heart up.
Won’t let that happen.
I roam through the row of seats, looking for the guy who bought a ticket to Vegas. But wait. Did he?
Back at my place, he booked his own flight. Said it was easier since he had a flight to London on Sunday, and rerouting it out of Vegas would make things simpler.
What if he didn’t book a flight at all?
I blink, drag a hand through my hair, try to talk myself down.
You made plans. It’s fine. Just because Gavin didn’t show up for the sports awards gala and left you high and dry doesn’t mean this guy is a charlatan.
“Flight sixty-nine to Las Vegas will commence boarding. All elite flyers and first-class travelers can now board,” the calm voice of the female gate agent says over the crackly loudspeaker.
I slide open my screen, ready to tap out a text to Hunter.
* * *
Nate: Hey. I’m boarding. I’ll catch you in the air, I suppose.
* * *
Then I close the message app, stuff the phone in my pocket, and wait another minute or two.
But he’s not here. And I feel ghosted before we’ve begun.
9
HUNTER
“Tell them it’s non-negotiable, Ilene,” I say into my mobile as I pace. “We made it clear the offer was for the sub-channel for six episodes only. Not eight. Six.”
“I know that, hun. Trust me, I so totally know that,” my VP says in her speed-of-light voice. “But it’s my job to bring you the counteroffer.”
“It is, Ilene. And I appreciate it. But we need to stay firm. Six episodes. Sub-channel. And the price per ep won’t change,” I tell her.
“But,” she says, and she’s uncharacteristically slow as molasses right now when I need her to be on speed, “the agent is saying Vespertine has an offer from you know who.”
I take a calming breath. “You can use the name of our competitor. They aren’t Voldemort.”
She laughs loudly, and I pull the phone away to click open a text message. “True, true. Rhymes with Zulu,” she whispers when I open a new text and read it.
Ah, bollocks.
“Attention, we are now boarding,” another voice booms.
“Listen, love. I’ve got to go. Remember what I always tell you? I trust you to handle these deals,” I say, calmly reminding her.
“You’re right, you’re right. You do,” she says, and we say goodbye as I march to the gate, hunting for the strapping man I want to spend the weekend with.
After I end the call, I weave through the crowd to catch up to my traveling companion. “Pardon me,” I say, then I set a hand on his shoulder.
Nate jerks his gaze toward me, and his eyes register surprise, then relief, but a hint of coolness too. “Hey, man,” he says, a little casual.
But before I can ask why, the gate agent calls us forward and scans our passes before we step onto the jetway.
I follow Nate. I could play things the way he wants. The man did lay down the rules of the road. No relationships and shit. Which is more than fine by me.
And yet, hookups have the most chance of success if you’re direct. “Did you think I was standing you up?”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. His face is inscrutable. It’s a game face, I’m sure. He’s laser-focused as he stares at me.
Then he drags his teeth along his bottom lip before scoffing. “No. S’all good.”
Hmm. I call bullshit. But I’m going to take my time getting to the bottom of this. As we walk down the jetway, I set a hand on his lower back. “Is this okay?” I ask, tipping my gaze to my hand since some guys aren’t good with PDA.
“Yeah. I’m cool,” he says plainly.
“Good. Me too,” I say, running my hand along his back—strong and muscular through his T-shirt.
A slight hitch in his breath tells me he’s affected.
And that’s helpful to know.
When we near the door of the plane, I lean in closer, brushing my lips quickly over the shell of his ear, then whisper, “Someone is a sexy little liar.”
Another hitch, then he startles, shooting me a look as he stops at the door. Readjusts. Points to my loafers. “Right foot first, man,” he says. Deflecting.
Fine, fine. I can play his game.
I follow his ritual as we board the plane and grab our seats. He takes the window, and I sit next to him in the aisle seat. “So, you’re a superstitious fellow?”
“Yup. Always board planes right foot first. Always wear a certain wristband on game days. And I never shave if we’re on a winning streak.”
“So you’re pretty furry during the season?”
That earns me the first smile since I saw him at the gate. “You know we’re a winning team. You do love football.”