Page 5 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

FOX

Anyone would think I’d get used to a tiny ass airport by the second or third time I flew into it.

The single runway, the Lego-sized building.

Lord, the luggage buggy—not a carousel, like we have literally everywhere else—but a golf-buggy-looking thing that zooms around like ice-cream trucks in suburban neighborhoods.

Instead of slinging dessert, it slings suitcases.

May means the winter harshness is long gone, and with that change comes the absence of three-foot-deep snow and ugly, naked trees.

Instead, this small town named Barlespy—a town barely larger than Plainview—blooms with seasonal color and swells happily in that sweet spot between winter and summer.

It’s neither hot nor cold. The sun remains in the sky just a little longer each night than it did a month ago, and the summer bugs are not yet at make-you-want-to-kill-yourself level.

Oh, but they’re coming.

Still, the suitcase-man sets my nerves on edge, zooming around the airport while he drags our luggage behind his little cart. I trudge off the plane—no tunnel or ramps here—and traverse the rickety steel stairs until I’m standing ten-toes down on the runway. The actual runway.

Folks would be arrested for this in New York!

The warm spring breeze whips my hair back while the sun flirts with the horizon. Not quite dark, but not really light, either. Best of all, Tommy Watkins waits by the airport terminal’s back door—no JFK security out here—and dips his chin when our eyes meet.

Just like that, a welcoming face releases my lungs and allows my pent-up breath to escape.

I set my carry-on case on its wheels and make quick work of tugging the handle up, but when I try to place my purse on top, my nerves make my movements jerky, and my rushed actions end with it spilling onto the ground.

“Shit.” Crouching, I toss my pen back into the leather bag, then my keys and lip balm.

“You need help, ma’am?” A broad, tanned hand stops in my peripherals, and when I follow it along a muscular arm, which leads to a wide chest and then, further up, a sweet smile and kind eyes, I gulp and stare.

So he places his hand under my elbow and draws me to my feet.

“Uh… thank you.” He smells nice, and when he reaches across and takes the handle of my carry-on, the delicious scents of cologne and coffee fill my lungs, replacing stale plane air.

I study his handsome face and expensively bought smile, and moving the straps of my purse to the crook of my arm, I hardly clock Tommy’s approaching form on my right.

“Kinda wish they’d give us the inflatable slide to get out of those planes. Way better than the stairs.”

He draws me around and leads me toward the terminal… Lego building . “You dread leaving New York and visiting places like this as much as I do?”

“Eh. I’m not visiting the place. I’m visiting the people. You here for a funeral or someone’s fiftieth wedding anniversary?”

He snorts. “Basically the only valid reasons to come here. My mom and dad’s anniversary, actually.

” He brings me toward the left, out of the other passengers’ way, since it’s clear they have somewhere to rush to.

“Name’s Wade Perkins.” He offers his hand and a charming grin.

“Bugging out of my skin already and can’t wait to fly east again. ”

“Fox Tatum.” I take his hand and shake. “Excited aunt counting down the minutes until her brand-new niece’s birth.”

“Fox.” Tommy comes to a stop on my right, his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He wears jeans not a great deal different from Wade’s and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his chest… also similar to Wade’s.

I guess they make them big out here.

“Hey.” I drag my favorite fighter into a hug— he’s the only fighter I know, but still. I squeeze extra tight and revel in the goodness of almost-Alana for a single beat of time. Then I step back and exhale a relieved breath as he takes my carry-on from Wade, then the handbag that weighs a ton .

Awkwardly, Wade drops his hands into his pockets and clears his throat.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Uh… Tommy Watkins, Wade Perkins.” I point between the pair. “Wade, Tommy.”

“We have to go.” Tommy pinches the hem of my jacket and tugs me away. “Alana’s waiting for you.”

“Is she okay?” Wade who ? I move fast, hurrying over the blacktop in his wake, two hurried steps to every one of his long strides. “Hey? Is there a problem? Why are we rushing?”

“Not rushing, and nothing’s wrong. We’ve got a drive ahead of us, and I wanna get home.”

“But she’s okay, right?” I step-step-jog to keep up. “Healthy? Baby’s okay?”

“Baby’s fine.” He drags me to a stop by the other passengers, catching my elbow when my feet tangle and the ground promises to hurt. Then he lifts a brow, glaring toward the suitcase buggy.

One might assume he’s waiting for instructions, unsure which case to select.

But then the ice-cream man presents a glittering spectacle completely unlike the blacks and beiges and browns surrounding it.

With a heaving grunt and strained face, he tosses it unceremoniously onto the concrete, its bulk landing with a splat that leaves me worried about the zippers.

But Tommy lowers his questioning brow and steps forward to collect my things.

Then we’re off again, moving toward the exit.

“Alana’s tired of being pregnant. She’s swollen and exhausted and said she’s not sleeping very well. ”

“I mean… She’s full-term with a giant Watkins baby. I’d expect nothing less.”

“Right.”

“And Franky?”

He tugs me out the doors and through the parking lot, straight toward a truck of rusted silver and scratched fenders that would never clue the world into the fortune he has socked away after back-to-back title wins.

Lifting my suitcase, his back and shoulders flaring under the weight, he tosses it into the bed of his truck, then he turns and grabs my carry-on, lobbing it in, too.

“Franky’s working on his armbar and getting kinda decent at it. ”

“No, I meant…” I stroll to the passenger door, narrowing my eyes. Intuition niggles at the back of my brain. “How’s he doing emotionally ? His mom’s going through some stuff, and his baby sister is about to turn his life upside down. I imagine he’s stressed but determined not to let Alana know.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s doing that.” He follows me to the door and jerks it open, gesturing none-too-friendly into the cab. “Let’s go.”

“A-are you alright?” I inch past him and carefully climb in. “You seem kinda tense. You insisted on picking me up tonight, but if I’d known it would make you cranky?—”

“I’m not cranky.” He slams the door and strides around the hood, digging a hand into his pocket and freeing his keys.

In seconds, he slides in on his side, his aftershave smacking me with a wafting cloud, his flexing jaw like a neon sign in the dark, illuminated under the harsh overhead light that extinguishes the moment he tugs his door closed.

Finally, he releases all but one key, so the rest dangle on the hoop, and a fancy, monogrammed keyring catches my attention.

CW.

C friggin W!

“Christian?” I recoil and slam my elbow on the window, hissing from the pain as his menacing eyes look me up and down. “What the hell? You’re not Tommy!”

“Didn’t say I was.” He stabs the key into the ignition and turns over the engine, pressing his foot to the clutch and rolling the truck forward, all in the time it takes my heart to beat. “You assumed.”

“You let me assume! I said, ‘ Hey, Tommy !’ And you leaned in for a hug.”

“You grabbed me for a hug. I neither consented nor did I make it into a big deal or act like an asshole in front of your friend. I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“Bullshit! You know I was only being polite because I thought you were someone else.”

“You don’t think I deserve your general politeness?”

“After you emailed me twenty-three times in the last six days?” I slump back and fix my seatbelt, folding my arms and making myself as small as possible, if only so I don’t have to be near him. “Twenty-three times! All to say the same thing. That’s grounds for a harassment order in any state.”

He firms his jaw in the waning light. “I was letting you know that we had this under control. So if you wanted to stay in New York, you could.”

“And I hit reply to the first three emails, informing you that I heard you, and that I intended to visit anyway. The twenty after that were unnecessary.”

“It was five emails.” He pulls out of the airport parking lot and onto a single-lane road. Because that’s all they need out here. One lane . “Exaggerating is the same as lying. Don’t be that person.”

“I told you your opinion was noted and disregarded. Yet, you continued to fill my inbox.” I purse my lips and stare daggers at the side of his face. “Don’t be that guy. It’s not cute. Neither is being a dick.”

“I wasn’t trying to be a dick.” He lounges back, one hand on the steering wheel and the other spinning the window crank until a warm breeze sprints through the cab.

“I was trying to ensure everyone was clear on the details. I was formal, friendly, and not at all harassing. Your presence is not necessary. That’s factual. You’re taking it personally.”

Of course, I’m taking it personally, you jackass! “It seems your presence is equally unnecessary. Alana asked me to be there for her. Did she ask you?”

Target decimated. The stony grip he has on his jaw breaks, and his hardened eyes slide across to mine. “I live here. She knows she can count on me, so it was hardly worth vocalizing.”

“Mmhm.” I open my purse and dig through its contents, snagging my phone just as soon as I catch sight of the illuminated screen.

Then, setting my bag on the floor between my feet, I unlock the device with a fast swipe of my thumb, switch off plane mode, and jump to my text inbox until, of course, a half dozen texts ding and vibrate to announce their arrival.