Page 53 of About Yesterday (Foothills #5)

Flirt

“The doors are closed. I’m sorry, sir.”

“No. No no no.” Ryder Mallory’s pulse pounded wildly as adrenaline from the sprint to the gate caught up to him, the force of it flooding his ears and flushing his cheeks. “My sister’s wedding is this afternoon.”

In Foothills. Even making his flight was set to give his mother a heart attack.

Now? Fucked, entirely.

With a robotic pity-smile, the attendant said, “There’s nothing I can do. The doors are closed. Federal regulations prohibit—”

“I know,” he said, gritting his jaw down tight and forcing a smile before he pissed off his lifeline. “This is completely my fault. My meeting ran late.” A wing-shaped nametag reflected against her dark uniform. “Annalisa, do you know if there are any other flights to Seattle?”

“Let me see what I can do.” With a smidge of sympathy, her closed-lipped smile tight, she trekked in her tan pumps to the counter.

He adjusted his garment bag and backpack and followed to meet her at the other side. Flashing his most charming smile, pearly whites on pleasant display, he said, “Thank you. I really, really appreciate your help.”

Honey brown eyes lifted to meet his, and she almost, almost looked like she actually wanted to help.

Progress. “With spring break, things are pretty booked, but let me see…” Each keystroke clacked as her long burgundy fingernails sprinted in a practiced search.

Finally, her brow dipped low as she landed on something.

“The next flight with an open seat to Seattle won’t get you there until seven this evening. ”

Heart sinking lower with each passing second, he imagined calling his brother to pass along how badly he’d fucked up this time. Grady ought to be sainted, playing messenger to keep the stress off their mother.

Lips pursed together, she scanned deeper into her system with swift keystrokes. “Oh. Wait. Okay. There’s a flight to Portland leaving in five minutes. If you run, you can make it.”

“Perfect,” he said, panic and relief broadening his grin. “Thank you.”

“Gate F11. Good luck.” She passed a quick paper copy of his new boarding pass.

Ryder slapped his hand down on it and took off.

Everyone and their damn dog were out for spring break and whatever else, flooding the airport and blocking his way. He juked around a stack of luggage. Jumped over a spilled frappuccino—hopefully, it might have been vomit.

How many fucking times had he been that guy, the one sprinting full out toward the gate? Enough, anyway, and he didn’t look half as cool as Jerry Maguire. Slowed by rolling suitcases and heavy bags enough times, he had packed a light backpack and only wore shoes with good traction.

“Final boarding for flight 751 to Portland PDX. Final boarding.” The announcement was garbled, echoing in the standard, barely understandable boarding call designed for absolutely no one except those already in the immediate boarding area.

“I’m here,” he hollered as he sprinted around the corner. He skidded to a halt on the tight weave commercial rug and slid his boarding pass onto the scanner. His lungs filled with air, his brain muddled and dizzy as he tried to calm his pulse.

“You must be Mr. Mallory. Annalisa called ahead and let me know you could use a break.”

“Thank you, Miranda,” he said with a rush of an exhale, falling into his winningest smile and ensuring to call her by name from the nametag. “You are a lifesaver.”

She smiled warmly back and nodded toward the door. “Good luck. I hope traffic’s okay for you.”

“Thanks.” He tipped a final, grateful nod, then dashed through the door and down the jetway.

34B.

Fuck. Cheeks puffed out, he slowed as he reached the plane and stepped on board.

The first-class passengers already had drinks and were happily relaxing for the flight. Where he was supposed to be. With how often he traveled for work, he had enough miles saved up to fly first class every day for the rest of his life. For all those vacations he hadn’t had time to take yet.

Not today, apparently. He tucked in his garment bag so he didn’t take anybody out along the walk down the aisle, and adjusted his backpack for the long, long, long trek to the back of the plane.

At least everyone had already boarded, so the aisle was clear, aside from people grabbing last minute electronics and sweatshirts from the overhead compartment.

Thirty-two, thirty-three, and… fucking hell.

Stoned and dozing, the aisle passenger took up half the aisle and half of the middle seat.

The window seat had a remarkably efficient knitter clicking her needles rapidly, the ball of yarn in a bag on the middle seat spinning as it unraveled.

“Um, excuse me,” he said, nodding to his seat.

Neither looked pleased to realize they didn’t have the room they’d hoped for.

The overhead compartment was packed full, so he held his bags in front of him, squished between the stoner’s spread legs and seat 33C and B, and dropped into his seat.

With his backpack stuffed under the seat in front of him, his clothes for the wedding in the garment bag folded as neatly as possible on top of it, he had absolutely zero legroom.

Grady was going to be pissed. Haley would roll, as Haley rolled miraculously well, for one of Patricia Mallory’s offspring. Maybe it was thanks to having a different dad, or not enduring adolescence under Patricia’s roof, when the divide between Grady and he had begun to widen.

He dug out his phone to text an update, but changed his mind. Better to wait until he was on the ground and on the road.

He leaned back in his seat, shifted, and thunked his head back as he realized there was zero give.

“Back row, man,” the stoner said, leaning closer than necessary, the skunky weed smell flooding Ryder’s nose. “This is as comfortable as we’re gonna get.”

The engines fired up, the roar close enough that his back and ass vibrated.

Ryder nodded at his fellow passenger. “Loud, too,” he said companionably over the noise.

The stoner nodded in dramatic agreement, and fell abruptly into a snore.

At least he wouldn’t have to engage in conversation.

On his other side, the knitter’s needles rhythmically swished, the constant tap click tap like a ticking clock at three in the morning.

The brakes disengaged, and the plane rolled back.

Ryder folded his arms in his lap, both armrests already claimed, and closed his eyes.

Pavlovian at this point, so programmed to sleep on the plane, he should fall asleep any second.

Up until one in the damn morning with his team to celebrate, then up at six to prep for the last-minute meeting, and in the headquarters of Sonora Seltzer by eight for a useless meeting to “get the ball rolling” on the contract he’d already slam dunked, thus, his sleep debt was reaching toxic levels.

That promotion has better be in the pipeline, after nailing the marketing contract that was going to absolutely next-level the company he’d dedicated ten years of blood, sweat, and tears to. Plus his social life. And his sleep. His sex life. Any sort of life.

Now that he’d put in more hours than anyone else at his level, raked in bigger profits—therefore bigger bonuses for the guys with the fancy titles—his boss implied that Ryder was next in line to join their ranks.

Write his own ticket, ski every weekend, get that cushy corner office, and leave early every Friday because he felt like it.

The engine blasted behind him, the plane slowing before the rush to defy gravity. And… go time. Accelerating faster than he’d ever gotten his Cayenne to go, the plane took off down the runway.

In the seat in front of him, a baby released a skull-piercing screech. The mom shushed and cooed and offered a boob, but the baby was too furious to accept comfort.

Ryder sealed his eyes tighter, willing sleep to come.

Nothing. Goddammit.

Time ticked painfully slowly. Nothing to do but wait. He pulled the magazine from the seat in front of him and flipped to the crossword. Seventy percent filled in. And half the answers were wrong.

He stuffed it back into the pocket next to the wrinkled puke bag and a candy wrapper.

When his stoned neighbor got up to pee, Ryder grabbed his garment bag and ducked into the other bathroom.

In the cramped space, he flipped down the toilet lid and slipped out of the shredded jeans from the meeting with the ultra-hip seltzer team in their arcade-style breakroom, and changed into slacks for the wedding.

He was going to be wrinkled enough, so he left to change in the car.

He quickly freshened up and was back in his seat before his neighbor was done, and the seatbelt light dinged on for landing.

For the final few minutes of the flight, his knee vibrated fast, and he glared up at the ceiling.

Beachy brunch seltzer. Like a mimosa, but better.

He mapped out the next campaign in his mind, already prepping the pitch.

Sparkling water meets artisan brew meets tropical fruit, so it didn’t come off like a wine spritzer.

New flavor, of course, something tropical.

Almost noon. Going to be a photo fucking finish—if traffic cooperated. As the plane taxied, he grabbed his bags and waited for his moment. And… now.

Even at his latest, he was never that guy, the asshole who shoved everyone aside to get off first. But today was different.

“Sorry,” he said as he slipped behind someone grabbing their bag. “Sorry. Sorry, have to get to a wedding,” he said, smiling and ignoring the glares, expletives, and damnational curses fired his way.

The second he stepped onto the jetway, he booked it. Fucking hell, he was still four hours away.

At this point in his career, he knew every airport on the west coast like the back of his hand. Plus the rest in the country, and a few other countries almost half as well. Out of the gate, he turned left and hauled ass toward the rental car desk.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Hey, Grady,” he answered without slowing.