Page 2

2

LANE

I always thought I knew what love at first sight would feel like.

I don’t know if I ever really believed in it. But I always thought that if it did exist, I’d know it for sure if it happened to me. I imagined it must be like seeing someone who immediately checks every single box you’ve ever wanted in a partner.

Someone who’s the embodiment of everything you find attractive, alluring, desirable. Someone who’s like the perfect combination of all the other people you’ve ever been with or been drawn to in your life, with their best traits amplified and their worst traits smoothed over.

Someone who, when you see them, you’re immediately hit with the realization that this person is exactly what you’ve been looking for all along.

Now I’m starting to think that isn’t how it would feel at all.

Look, I’m not saying I’m in love with the girl sitting next to me on this plane, who I only started talking to because her dirty audiobook accidentally played through her phone. That would be ridiculous—no matter how fun she is to talk to, or how fucking good she looks.

All I’m saying is, she’s not the kind of girl I’ve ever been into. I’ve always been drawn to preppy types. Cheerleaders or sorority girls with type A personalities.

But Scarlett doesn’t give off those vibes at all. She’s got an edgy, sort of alternative look to her, with dark hair, a stud in her nose, and pale skin that’s dotted with tattoo designs.

Traditionally, she’s not my type.

But she’s not a type , she’s a person. And I damn sure find her appealing.

Now I’m starting to think that I was all wrong about what love at first sight would feel like.

Maybe it’s more like seeing someone who makes you realize you were wrong all along about what you thought you were “into.” Maybe instead of it being like seeing someone who looks like they stepped out of your own fantasies and into reality, it’s like seeing someone who you never would have imagined, and them stepping into your head and rearranging all the furniture in there.

Yeah, it would be nuts to say that I’m in love with the girl I just met. But it’s a fact that she’s already making me reconsider what I thought I knew about the word.

Finally, we pull in safe and sound to our exit gate at Chicago’s O’Hare airport. As Scarlett turns her head to the aisle to see if there’s space for her to stand up, I take the opportunity to let my eyes rake over her.

She’s wearing a t-shirt that’s baggy, but not too baggy for the gentle swell of her breasts to curve under the fabric. The sleeves are short, her arms slender and sprinkled with patchwork tattoos.

There’s two cute ghosts next to each other, cherries, a bouquet of flowers, and some squiggly abstract shapes. I can’t help but wondering how many tattoos she has that I can’t see right now, and where on her body they might be.

My cock thickens in my pants as a sharp pang of anticipation strikes in my chest, because it’s not outside the realm of possibility that I’m going to be able to find out.

We have chemistry enough to lose ourselves in a conversation on a plane ride. I find her sexy as hell, and even though she says I’m not her type, she’s not the only one who can read unsaid words written in someone’s eyes. She perused my body more than once while we were talking, and it sure as fuck wasn’t a lack of interest that flickered in her chestnut gaze.

I have no intention of leaving this airport and heading into the city without her number in my phone.

The line in the aisle starts to move forward as passengers deplane, giving Scarlett space to get up from her seat.

I slide out of mine and reach up to the overhead luggage bin above our row before she has a chance to. Ignoring my own carry-on suitcase, I pull down the one that must be hers and set it in front of her.

Like I kind of expected she would, she eyes me with an expression that’s more skeptical than appreciative. “What, I don’t look like I can take care of myself?”

I flash her a wink before I pull my gaze away from hers and grab my own suitcase while saying casually, “Oh, you do. You just look like you have to a little too often.”

Instead of giving her the chance to respond—because she also looks like the kind of girl who likes to always have the last word—I pull out the handle of my suitcase and stroll up the aisle to the exit, knowing she’s trailing behind me.

We file out into the terminal, passing another group of passengers waiting to board their own flight. I hear the warbled wailing of a baby who’s being bounced in the arms of a woman lined up to board her flight, trying to calm him down.

Poor little guy. I don’t like flying and I’m twenty years old. Take-off always makes my ears pop. If I were an infant about to get on a plane I’d be crying, too.

But the fully grown man standing right behind the mother and her child doesn’t have such a charitable interpretation of things, judging by his sour expression.

“Man, I hope she can shut this thing up once we get seated,” he announces gruffly to no one in particular.

The harried-looking mother blushes self-consciously as the douche only makes an even bigger show of huffing and sighing over a fussy baby making a little bit of noise.

Not that he cares or even notices, but I shoot him a nasty look as I walk past their line.

I mean, hey, no one wants to sit next to a crying baby on a flight. But it’s not like the poor kid’s got an off-switch. The only thing he’s doing by whining about it for everyone to hear is making the mom feel bad.

Scarlett, on the other hand, isn’t content with a nasty look.

“I’d sit next to a crying baby on a twelve-hour flight any day before I sat next to an entitled douche like you on a ninety-minute one,” she says chipperly.

The man’s eyelids snap back, his eyes bulging in shock. I take it he’s the type of guy who’s not used to people standing up for themselves or others when he goes in on them. I’ve only just met her, but I also take it that Scarlett isn’t the type to hold her tongue when she comes across someone who deserves to be told off.

It only makes me like her more.

Scarlett saunters up the terminal, leaving the guy tongue-tied, and now it’s my turn to fall a couple steps behind her as I’m left lost for words before I pick up my pace to catch up.

“Are you headed to the L train into town, too?” she asks as I fall into step next to her.

Fuck, now I really, really wish I was.

I’m here for an assistant coaching position at a hockey summer camp for elite-level high school players. I got drafted to the San Jose NHL team out of high school, and their staff is heavily involved in running the program, so they offered me this role. I’m choosing to complete college and play for my school’s team, the Brumehill Black Bears, rather than trying to jump right into the pros, but the San Jose staff and I keep in touch.

Among other things, it’ll be valuable experience in a leadership position, because my college coach just told me that starting next year, I’m going to be the new team captain.

The camp is hosted on the University of Chicago campus, and I’ll be living in Hyde Park. But that’s not where I’m going right away. Camp staff have sent a car to pick me up from the airport and drive me to a teambuilding meeting that I’m arriving just in time for in Chicago’s Loop neighborhood.

“No,” I answer ruefully, “there’s a car picking me up that’s taking me right to a meeting for my hockey camp. Where are you staying this summer?”

“Hyde Park,” she answers.

Immediately, excitement surges through me.

We’re going to be living in the same neighborhood all summer. Anticipation beats in my chest, and I couldn’t wipe off the smile that’s taken residence on my face even if I wanted to try.

We arrive at the exit that’ll bring me out to where the car’s waiting for me. I don’t want to be late and make a bad impression with camp staff that include many of the people I’ll be working with at San Jose once I graduate. But I’m not ready to just say later to Scarlett.

“Same,” I say, trying not to sound as eager as I am. “Let’s trade numbers and meet up sometime.”

She stops.

A thoughtful look swims in her eyes, like she’s debating how to answer. There’s a twist of tension in my stomach that I’ve never felt before when asking a girl for her number.

I’m used to approaching interactions with women being cool and confident, but I’m anything but cool right now as I feel jittery with anticipation hoping that she says yes, because this is one girl I sure as hell haven’t seen enough of.

“You’re in Hyde Park, too?” she questions, tilting her head, an ambivalent glimmer still dancing in her eyes.

I nod. “That’s right.”

She purses her lips. Slices her gaze thoughtfully up and to the right. Then she shrugs.

“How ‘bout this,” she says, “if it’s meant to be, we’ll see each other around. It’s a long summer in a small neighborhood. And if we don’t,” she shrugs again, “it clearly wasn’t.”

I open my mouth, but before I can wrap my tongue around any words, she’s walking away, tossing me a wave over her shoulder. “See you around, pretty boy. Maybe,” she calls back.

That last word is like a dart slicing into my heart and a jolt of energy racing through my system all at once. But as my gaze tracks her walking away, it’s the latter reaction that wins out.

I have a feeling we’re going to meet again, and I have a feeling that it’s going to be a lot sooner than later.