Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

For the ones who were told their dreams were too dreamy but who went on to make them come true anyway. And for my awful high school English teacher, Mr. C, who looked me in the eye at sixteen years old and told me I’d never be a good writer. Thanks for the motivation.

BASH One year ago…

I’m stuck in an airport, and everyone is annoying me.

“Attention all passengers awaiting boarding for Air Acadia flight 2375 with service to Calgary. We regret to inform you that your flight has been canceled and rescheduled for tomorrow morning. You should receive an email shortly with updated flight information. Please see a booking agent if you require further assistance. We appreciate your patience and understanding and look forward to serving you tomorrow.” A communal groan rolls through the space. What follows is a string of announcements delivering the same message to neighboring gates: no one is getting out of here tonight.

I’d empty my entire bank account just to sleep in my own bed tonight. To be alone with some fucking peace and quiet. To decompress. Instead, I am fully compressed. Every muscle feels tight, and my jaw hurts from clenching it. Even my lungs feel constricted. This was the last thing I needed after having my entire world turned upside down.

The man stares at me, and I stare back. His gaze sweeps over my favorite plaid flannel shirt, then down my black jeans and leather boots. I’m bigger than him, and while it’s been a few years since I threw a punch, I’m not above it. I may be pushing forty, but I’m in great shape, and it might feel good to release this tension.

The only reasonable solution is to sleep on a bench in the terminal.

Tired legs carry me through the airport as I scan for a spot where I can go horizontal for a few hours. Years of battling active forest fires have left me with the uncanny ability to doze off almost anywhere and function with little sleep. Wildfires don’t care about your bedtime and often like to do their worst after dark, so I’m no stranger to catching some shut-eye in uncomfortable places. Except, I’m not the only person who seems to have resigned themselves to sleeping at the airport tonight.

As I internally scold a major airport, a voice catches my attention. The sound of it pulls me right out of my downward spiral. I glance up, and there she is. The lemonade girl. Woman.

And that voice? It’s the furthest thing from girlish. That voice is all grown-up. It’s not giddy or overly bright. It’s all honey and spice, smooth with a hint of heat—borderline sensual without even trying.

Loose, platinum waves fall next to full cheeks and a button nose. But it’s her big blue doe eyes that are a fucking kick to the gut. They’re so vibrant, I swear they trend toward a lavender tone.

“S-sorry. I wish I could⁠—” I hear him trip over his words and chuckle. Poor fucking kid. “Oh, don’t be sorry. I see a spot over there, actually. I appreciate your help.” I scoff under my breath. Help. That’s generous of her. “Something funny?” I hear that voice again, closer this time. And when I look up, she’s standing right in front of me. And fuck me if for a moment I don’t feel as tongue-tied as the kid I was just laughing at. I stare back at her, feeling like I could squirm under the weight of her soulful gaze.

Her lips tug up in an almost-knowing smile. “Good. I’d hate to sit with a stranger who’s laughing to himself over nothing.” “Sorry?” I ask, confused. But any confusion vanishes when the woman slides the chair opposite me back from the table and takes a seat. Uninvited. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“What if someone else is sitting there?” I grumble, not particularly comfortable with the unexpected nature of this run-in—or how attractive I find her. She sets her bag on the floor with a husky, amused laugh. When she straightens, she doesn’t look remotely uncomfortable, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin against her palm. “No one else is sitting here.” I cross my arms and lean back, creating some space between us. “How do you know?” Her head tilts, the overhead lights highlighting the apples of her cheeks. “No bag. No phone. And you are giving off some serious stay-the-fuck-away energy.” I quirk a disbelieving brow at the woman. “Stay-the-fuck-away energy?” She hits me with a conspiratorial smile. “Yes. If you were a house, I would sage you.”

I frown at her hand, which gets me a throaty laugh followed by “Hi. Thanks for inviting me to join you. My name is Gwen, and you are?” I glance back up, and her sparkling eyes flit between mine, a dimple deepening on her right cheek the longer I glare back. I swear to god, she’s getting a kick out of irritating me. So, to ruin her fun, I reach for her hand with a brusque “Hi. I’m Bash. And I think our definitions of invite might be wildly different.” Gwen lifts one shoulder in a gentle shrug. “Maybe this seat was meant to be empty.” My lips flatten. “Yes, exactly. It was.” She laughs softly, head shaking as though I fascinate her. “Yet here I am. And you know what they say… When life gives you lemons…” She winks at me, and my jeans feel the slightest bit tighter across the front.

“What if I wanted limes?” I ask, right as a flustered server pops up at our table with a breathless, “What can I get you?” With her eyes fixed on mine and that pretty mouth curved into a knowing smile, Gwen—the interloper—doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. This man desperately needs a lime margarita. Extra sour.”

GWEN

When I turn my focus back on the man across the table from me, I am met with a look that could kill. And if I hadn’t seen him be so damn nice to that poor customer service agent, I might buy it. Except I was there. From a few spots back in line, I watched him speak up for the woman without hesitation. Hell, he’d even used a fresh and amusing spin on one of my favorite sayings.

I know what a truly mean expression looks like—the kind that precedes words sharp enough to wound. This isn’t it. Instead, he looks like all bluster and chiseled features. If I had to use one word to describe him, it would be masculine. From head to toe.

“Did you just invite yourself to my table and then order for me?” His deep voice rumbles but there’s no bite. “Oh, is this your table? My apologies. I didn’t realize you owned the airport.” A vein on the side of his neck pulses. One that I know is only visible because this man is tense as hell. “No, but it’s a known rule that when someone is sitting at a table, the other chairs are also taken.” My lips form into an O as I pretend to be enlightened by this new information. “Gosh, I had no idea. I haven’t read the rule book to being stuck in an airport overnight. Do you have it on hand?”

“Strikes me that we’re all fucked tonight, and any open chair is fair game. If you don’t like me, then I fear I cannot help you. But if you just don’t like margaritas, then I’m happy to help you out by drinking both. I don’t have anywhere to be tonight, and I do love a good margarita.” His full mouth pops open as though he’s about to say something, but no words come. He just stares back at me like I’m an exotic bird he’s never seen before. Finally, he mumbles, “I like you just fine.” “Wow, high praise coming from you. Thank you for blessing me with your approval,” I tease,

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.” With a satisfied smile, I lean back, crossing my arms to mimic his position. “Do I? All I know about you is that you prefer limes to lemons and have a strong moral compass.” His head tilts ever so slightly. “Strong moral compass?” “The booking desk.” Understanding flares in his eyes. “Saw that, did you?” “In all its glory. And it really was glorious.”

“I mean… No one else did anything. I suspect, for that woman, it was a pretty big deal. It’s quite the phenomenon that men like that are all fire and brimstone when they’re talking to someone they can intimidate.” Just ask my dad. He’d wanted to send me out into the world meek and obedient. And he failed. The only thing he sent me into the world with was a defiant backbone, unfailing optimism, the desire to chase my dreams…and a few daddy issues. But none of those issues are actually him. Because I haven’t spoken to the man in eight years.

I nod my agreement when I hear Bash mumble, “Maybe you should sage him instead.” My eyes widen as I take him in, not finding a single other sign that he just deadpanned a comment like that. So I play along. “Absolutely. I’ll take that under advisement. Maybe if we track him down tonight, I could offer a two-for-one deal and get both of you cleansed up.” That earns me another scowl, which only makes me laugh. “So where you headed?” the man asks. “Toronto. You?” “Calgary.” I nod, remembering his gate was just beside mine.

“They’re very…neon.” I nod solemnly, gazing down at the drink. It’s definitely not reminding me of the margaritas I was enjoying on the beach in Mexico at my yoga retreat only a day ago. “This looks like it’s the from-concentrate juice off the soda gun. It’s a margarita but not a good margarita.” Bash winces. “This is gonna be sweet as hell.” “There is some good news.” His dark gaze flicks to mine, and an airy flutter in my chest distracts me for a beat. “The good news…” I lick my lips. “The good news is that there is tequila floating around in all that sugary juice.” He nods, not looking away. And though I’m not usually one to squirm under a man’s attention, I feel my cheeks flush as this one looks me over. His gaze is appreciative, and I revel in it. “That’s a great point. And when stuck in an airport overnight, some tequila is better than no tequila.”

I can’t help but notice the signs of physical labor on his hands. There’s a coarseness to them. Calloused on the palms, the odd scar on the backs. One nail with the dark-blue tinge of a deep bruise. Yeah, this man works with his hands. I swallow quickly and follow suit, lifting my glass to the middle of the table. “Cheers. To limes.” Bash gives his head a slight shake before lifting his glass and clinking it against mine. “To limes.”

A companionable silence settles between us as we nurse our drinks, watching the world go by. But the more margaritas we down, the more that silence morphs into a tipsy, friendly sort of companionship. At the very least we partake in some mutual rubbernecking, tossing the odd comment each other’s way as we take turns pointing out the night’s mayhem—a couple arguing, a child toppling off a seat they were climbing, a man staggering out of the restaurant with bloodshot eyes.

“So what is it you do for a living?” His tongue runs over his teeth like he’s considering whether to answer me. Then, with a shrug, he answers in a gruff voice. “I’m an aerial firefighter. But during the winter I⁠—” My palms slap the table as I pitch forward, breasts pressing against the edge. His gaze drops to my chest briefly, but I don’t call him on it. My boobs are pretty damn big and they’re constantly in the way. “I’m sorry, what? You’re not just a regular firefighting hero? You fly actual planes into actual fires and drop water on them?” “Depends on the fire. And the strategy. Sometimes it’s retardant.”

“Okay, Top Gun. I’m sure someone whose home was saved by your perfect aim and huge set of brass balls would describe your contribution as ‘exaggerated.’” He snorts and looks away. “You’ve got a way with words. That’s for sure.” I flip my hand in a rolling motion and tip my head forward in a dramatic bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all night.” My head pops up, and I wink at him. “No, literally, I’m fucking stuck here.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips, and god, I bask in it.

“And what do you do, Gwen? Is it stand-up comedy? Palm readings?” My tongue pops into my cheek. “No. But I did go through a tarot phase.” His eyes roll, but there’s no malice in the movement. “Of course you did.” I chuckle softly and take another sip. His gaze lowers again, but this time to the tip of my tongue as it darts out over the salt rim. “I’m a yoga instructor.” His eyes widen, snapping away from my mouth. “That makes so much sense.”

Bash nods, one sure dip of his stubbled chin. “I meant what I said. I can totally see it. And I have no doubt you’re excellent at it.” Relief drops my shoulders, and I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Yeah, no. I’m just used to people…” I trail off with a light laugh and glance away. “You know what? Never mind.” “No, tell me.”

“I don’t know. For starters, I don’t look how people expect a yoga instructor to look.” His gaze rakes over my body, chin tipping down and then back up. And the only thing I see in his eyes is appreciation. “What do you mean? You look like a yoga instructor to me.” He says it so simply and with a slightly confused tone. It’s…endearing. Refreshing. I lift a shoulder, playing his response off casually. “I meant my size.” At that his brows furrow. Confusion morphing into irritation. “People are stupid,” he grumbles simply.

“And then people often sort of pat my head when I tell them what I do. Like, That’s so cute, but what do you plan to do when you grow up? Or but what about university? Very patronizing. It’s tiring having to justify that what I do has value.”

“Again, people are stupid. Plenty of us make great livings and have fulfilling careers without attending university.” I smile my thanks and then slam back the rest of my margarita to cover any blubbering I might do. “You should tell my dad that,” I mutter before dropping my glass like a gavel on the table.

BASH

I blink up at her, wanting to go back to the part about her dad. Or the comment about her size. Because I barely know her, but I’m pissed off that anyone could make her feel that way about herself. I’ve been in her presence for just over an hour, and I can tell she’s got a knack for helping people. For making a dark room feel just a little bit brighter. And that’s not something you can learn in the pages of a book.

“Do something? Here?” “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Where else? There’s gotta be something to entertain us.” “I was thinking of sleeping.” “Pfft.” She waves me off. “Please. How many times in your life are you going to be stuck in an airport overnight?” “Hopefully only once?” “Exactly! This is a core memory. A night we’ll tell our kids about one day.” I wince. Kids. That’s a sore spot tonight, but she doesn’t notice the sobering effect her words have on me. She just carries on, unruffled. “And if the story ends with I lay on a dirty floor unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep for hours, it’s going to be the worst story. Don’t live life with regrets, Sebastian.”

“Come on. Don’t quit on me now. I have a deep inner need to make you like me, and I feel like I’m getting close.”

My eyes drop to her round ass—jeans hugging her hourglass shape perfectly, curved hips swaying confidently with every stride. Yeah, she’s hot as hell. She’s fucking trouble.

“Where are we going?” She shrugs, gazing around with an expression of wonder on her face and a flash of amusement on her features. “I don’t know. Do we need a plan? Maybe we’ll just walk along, and something will catch our eye.” My Adam’s apple bobs in my throat as I regard her and wonder what the hell was in those margaritas. Because my mind is consumed by one thought: something has caught my eye. She peeks at me. “I know what you need.” I flush, feeling like a kid caught gawking. I sure hope not. “You need a pick-me-up before we go on our adventure.” “I think all the coffee shops are closed.”

Doing nothing is not my forte. I pride myself on staying busy, on always having a project on the go. Hell, I could take winters off since I quit going overseas to fight fires. I have enough money saved up to spend the season in Mexico, sipping margaritas on the beach. And yet, here I am, building up a contracting business and taking odd jobs over the winter months.

She’s shifted onto her knees and folded forward, her elbows propped on the floor with her hands held up in a prayer position. “You can follow along if you want to do some energy-boosting poses.” “That’s okay. I suspect I’d injure myself if I tried to do that.” She chuckles and carries on, breathing deeply, moving between yoga poses I recognize but couldn’t name. I watch her without shame. Her body moves with effortless grace, every curve on display. I force myself not to leer, shifting my attention instead to her fingers splayed on the floor, the way her bright hair falls in soft waves when she drops her head. The smell of her shampoo when it hits me—rosemary and mint. She’s borderline hypnotic.

She doesn’t give a fuck what I think. Nor should she. And I admire that about her.

Eventually she stops, her shoulders held tall but soft. Then her lashes flutter open, and those unusual irises focus on me. “Were you watching me the whole time?” I feel my cheeks flush, but what’s the point in denying it? She could probably tell anyway. “Yes.” She searches my face before tilting her head. “And?” I swallow, mind racing with all the different ways I could answer that question. Commenting on how fucking incredible her ass looked when she was on all fours is definitely creepy and off the table, so I shrug and tell her something else that’s true. “I knew you’d be good at your job. The snowflake thing almost worked.”

GWEN

It’s eerily quiet in the airport, the lights dimmed to a soft glow. We’ve walked the entire terminal, read every placard detailing the area’s history, and admired every photo of Vancouver from over a century ago. Now, we’ve come across a special, limited-time display of tiny Disney figurines. “Oh, look at this Minnie Mouse!” I point at the glass. “She’s doing yoga.” Bash comes close, his thick shoulder brushing against mine as he bends at the hips to inspect the one I’m referring to. The unexpected contact makes my heart skip a beat. “I think she’s just sitting cross-legged.” The low gravel of his voice doesn’t help my heart rate either, and I realize that, for being an absolute stranger, I like him far more than I have any right to. “No, she’s in Seated Pose or Easy Pose,” I say with a roll of my eyes, even though I’m amused. His surliness doesn’t put me off. Strangely, it charms me. “Like we just were.” “First, that pose wasn’t easy. I think I dislocated my hip.”

“Second, these figurines are probably as old as me. I promise you no one was making figurines of Minnie Mouse doing yoga back then.” I give a solemn nod, still staring ahead at yoga Minnie. “Right. In the olden days.” That gets me a snort. “Something like that.” “How old are you, then? Like, do you just look phenomenal for someone born in 1928? Because the sign says that’s when they were created.”

“I’m thirty-nine.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, as though going through the motions of acting casual when facing each other in this deserted hallway feels…not casual at all. “Well, color me relieved. If you were born in 1928, you’d be altogether too old for me.” He doesn’t react to the quip. Instead, he just keeps staring me down. “How old are you, Gwen?”

“I’m twenty-seven, Bash.”

“Aren’t you tired?” he asks, not dropping my hand this time. “Sure.” I shrug. “But tired is kind of relative. I have been more tired. And there are worse things to be than tired. I’ll let my body rest tomorrow. Tonight, we make memories.” “Like debating whether Minnie Mouse does yoga?” My eyes latch on to the moving sidewalk before us. It’s going the wrong direction for the way we’re headed. But I don’t let that deter me. I hop on anyway, the movement constantly pushing me back toward him. “No. Like drinking bad margaritas, meditating in Terminal B, and racing on the moving walkway.” “Have you never walked on one of those bef⁠—” I turn so I’m walking in reverse, facing him, and grin. “It’s just an added challenge.”