Wild Card

by Elsie Silver

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

Woman. Because there is nothing girlish about her. She carries herself with a confident ease, wearing soft, feminine curves like she invented them. 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.

I’m too damn old to be gawking at a pretty girl in the airport.

I deemed her pretty before, but I was wrong—she’s fucking gorgeous.

“Stay-the-fuck-away energy?” She hits me with a conspiratorial smile. “Yes. If you were a house, I would sage you.” Ah, more granola, woo-woo, make-lemonade, salt-of-the-earth shit. Exactly what I’m in the mood for.

If I had to use one word to describe him, it would be masculine. From head to toe. Chunky black leather boots, no-nonsense Levi’s, and a soft, boxy flannel shirt give him a total lumberjack vibe. A grumpy lumberjack.

“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.”

It would appear “Bash” is short for Sebastian Rousseau. Even his name is hot, I think to myself distractedly.

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.

Yeah, this man works with his hands.

Poor guy looks uncomfortable with the praise. I bet he doesn’t see himself that way at all.

“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.’”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, and god, I bask in it.

Internally, I berate myself for dumping my personal baggage all over this hot stranger just because he’s being nice to me and saying things I desperately want to hear. Then, I push to standing and change the subject.

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.

“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.”

She warms me. And a cautious optimism surges from within. It makes me think that maybe—just maybe—despite my surliness and sour mood, she might be enjoying my company.

Yeah, she’s hot as hell. She’s fucking trouble.

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.

The way her brain works is…refreshing. And I want to know more about it. I think I’d like to spend some time in her brain just so I can get the hell out of mine.

She’s borderline hypnotic.

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

This night has been one surprise after another. I don’t know how I got here, but it almost feels like I’m having fun. Stuck in an airport. With a fucking stranger. And what a stranger she is.

She brightens, like a ray of sunshine in the middle of a dark winter night.

I let out a loud, unladylike guffaw when I hear his breathing behind me. “Sorry, this must be hard for someone your age,” I call back.

I feel like a teenager again—that hot, fluttery feeling unfurling in my chest because a cute boy just asked me for my number. But this is so much better because he’s a hot man. With big fucking hands and a deep fucking voice.

It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve met a lot of people in my life but they don’t get under my skin the way Sebastian Rousseau has.

And I tell myself it’s just goodbye for now and not forever. Because the world works in mysterious ways, and it would never squander a meet-cute like ours.

Weston Belmont is one of my closest friends, and even though I pretend to be irritated by him, I’m actually pretty attached to the guy. Despite the fact that he’s taken to jokingly calling me daddy.

Beautiful doe eyes, more lavender than blue. Eyes I haven’t seen in eight months. All the air leaves my lungs in one rough exhale. Because I’d know those eyes anywhere. I’ve dreamed of them.

The word girlfriend falls through me, landing hard and heavy in my gut. Yeah. What are the fucking chances?

Sebastian. The full name feels too formal for the night we shared. A night I think about more often than I should. A night during which we barely touched, and yet it rivals the intimacy of any night I’ve ever spent with a man.

Tripp’s dad? The universe really decided to fuck me on this one.

To the outside observer, it would appear that I’m staring at the guy I showed up here with. But they would be wrong. I’m staring at his dad.

But for me? That night? Something happened. I can’t put my finger on it, and god knows I’ve spent many a late night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out why I haven’t been able to shake his memory.

I’ve wondered if it was one of those moments in the universe where all the stars align—where every little choice made in life led us to that airport on that exact night. Maybe it was just a little bit of magic. Inexplicable and undeniable all at once.

What I do know for sure is that it’s been eight months, and I still think about Sebastian Rousseau every damn day.

This is a cruel, cruel joke. Because I may not know him well, but I ache for him all the same. I would have chosen him.

Sorry, I’ve been obsessing over your girlfriend for months, blew my shot because, in the fog of pulling an all-nighter, I missed one fucking number, and now I’ll never have her.

But teasing Gwen about her eating habits felt like a backhanded way of criticizing her body. And that set me off. Because her fucking body. I’ve dreamed of it. Of her.

“That’s my yoga instructor, Gwen.” My head snaps toward the table, and my gut drops to the floor beneath me. Because, sure as shit, there is Gwen from the airport. Tripp’s Gwen. Sitting at a table with my friends. In my town.

And with that, I flee. Like the down-bad coward I am.

I watch Bash go with my heart in my throat and my eyes on his ass. I don’t even think I’m being subtle about it.

Yeah, so far, Rose Hill has been pretty damn perfect. Cool women. A stable job. Mind-blowing mountain views. The guy I met a year ago.

Bash. Looking like he could kill someone. And also looking hot as hell in black jeans, work boots, and flannel jacket, sherpa collar flipped up to beat the chill.

Two little numbers. One man. And not just any man—his son. Had I known…

“Why are you pretending you know anything about the crown chakra?” “Gwen told me about the chakras yesterday. She said one has to do with enlightenment. And you are certainly not acting very enlightened.” I blink while Bash scowls. “Well, forgive me for not taking lessons in enlightenment from a guy who believes Tupac is still alive.”

I’m a bit stunned by him storming out, but Clyde doesn’t seem affected at all. Instead, he shouts after him, “Go look at something purple! It’ll help support your crown chakra!”

Go look at something purple, Clyde teased yesterday. And all I could think was, I can’t. Not when everything purple reminds me of Gwen’s unusual eye color.

It’s been a year, and try as I might, I can’t shake her. Or what could have been. I blew it when I entered that one number wrong.