“So.”
“Do you have a ride?” he asked, thinking if she didn’t, he could offer one.
“My dad’s picking me up.”
He nodded, desperate to fill up what felt like a wide expanse of space between them. All around, people greeted one another with hugs and lugged bags onto carts. But it was all white noise as Chris concentrated solely on Bronte.
She fidgeted, her hands jumping from her suitcase to push her hair behind her ears, back to her suitcase, and then finally settling in the pockets of her jacket. “I’m glad you were sitting next to me.”
“Me too. It must have been fate,” he said, then reconsidered, shaking his head. “But if fate were any good, I would have met you a long time ago.”
“Chris, I…” She shifted from foot to foot, her attention on the floor.
“Hey,” he started, moving closer to her, waiting until she lifted her gaze to his. “It’s better late than never, right?” His eyes roamed over her features, wondering if this instant connection was a fluke. It had to be. Stuff like this only happened in movies. He would know.
Giving in to the kind of reckless behavior he’d been used to, he bent down, pressing his palm to her jaw, his focus on the tip of her tongue as it slipped out, wetting her lips, and he was desperate to learn if her kisses were as sweet as she was. Though before he could find out, she slipped away from him with a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m sorry, that—”
“What’s wrong?” He reached for her hand, but she folded her fingers into a fist.
“Don’t. Please, Chris, don’t.”
“All right,” he said, stepping away, mentally cursing himself as she tugged on her hair again. He managed a meager half smile. “Can I at least get your number, or—”
“It was nice meeting you.” She backed away, her hand to her throat. “Take care of yourself.”
A dull ache filled his chest as she walked away from him, recognizing that unidentifiable emotion from before as hope, and he watched as it was lost among the sea of travelers. He’d had an intense couple of hours seated next to Bronte, and he could tell it was crazy intense for her too.
Then again, that was the problem. He was used to crazy. She, clearly, was not.
She’d come to her senses, probably realizing this thing between them was too good to be true. And then he’d tried to kiss her, and the warning bells went off.
With a sardonic laugh at himself, he readjusted the baseball hat on his head. Fucking up something before he even had it in his grasp was par for the course, he supposed.
He turned his back on the spot Bronte had occupied, going to the luggage carousel to get his things. Once he had his duffel bag in hand and guitar case slung over his shoulder, he headed toward the rental car counter for his very sensible four-door Chrysler. He snorted when he saw the white automobile. After Chris demolished his special edition Aston Martin, replicated from the original James Bond car, Wes would never arrange for anything other than a very safe four-cylinder for Chris to drive. He hopped in and typed the address for his temporary home into the GPS: Allentown, Pennsylvania.
Wes had been Chris’s manager and friend for the past ten years and had stuck by him, cleaning up his messes. Though his patience had understandably worn thin, he’d gladly extended Chris his childhood home for some rest and relaxation. “A time to read some scripts and think about what you really want,” Wes had said as he’d pushed the keys into Chris’s hand back in Los Angeles.
In the fifteen-minute drive to the house, the sun began setting, lighting the trees on fire in varying degrees of red and orange. With the windows rolled down, he caught the scent of crisp autumn leaves in the cool wind and started to loosen up. He slowed at a stop sign and took in the sights around him. Oak-tree-lined streets. Homes decorated for Halloween with pumpkins and scarecrows. Kids riding their bikes in the dying twilight.
He pulled up to his temporary address, parking in front of a little two-story brick house, and gathered his stuff before heading into his makeshift home. Wes had mentioned his parents had moved down to Florida a couple of years ago, and he had taken the place over, renting it out, which explained why it was so barren, with beige walls and a few pieces of furniture.
Chris had just finished checking the place out, tossing his hat and duffel on the bed, when the doorbell rang. He opened the front door to a smiling woman. She looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties, lines of gray streaking her dark hair, with a pair of square glasses over her light-blue eyes.
“Hi, I’m Pattie Hollinger. I live next door. Wes called and asked me to look in on you.”
A moment of surprise passed before he answered. “Oh, you don’t have to—”
“I made you a potato casserole. I figured you’d be famished and wouldn’t know your way around to find anything.” She stepped up to the landing, holding up a covered dish.
He tried to argue, but at that moment, his stomach decided to speak up in a loud growl. When she raised her eyebrow as if her point had been proven, he accepted the large glass container. “Thank you.”
“Wes explained everything to me.”
“Explained everything?”
“Don’t worry.” She touched the side of her nose and winked. “I know you’re here to hide out.”