Page 3 of Truth or More Truth (Throwback RomComs #3)

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. . .

“ H ow long does it take to drive to Arkansas?” I ask Melissa as I match her shorter strides on the way to baggage claim to retrieve her luggage. “And do you know how to get there?”

“I have no idea, other than heading south-ish. Why don’t you ask your assistant?” she asks in a snide tone.

I can’t decide if I love or hate her attitude.

I’m leaning toward love. I do enjoy a good battle, and she seems intent on fighting me every step of the way.

I was tempted to continue to argue with her on the car issue, but I knew she was right.

Rental cars would be few and far between right now.

There’s no reason to waste time trying to find a car that doesn’t exist or, if it does, take it from someone who truly needs it.

“Maybe I will call her,” I reply.

“You do that.”

“Or maybe we should pick up a road atlas.”

She’s silent for a good twenty seconds as she marches along beside me before she admits, “There’s one in my car.”

Of course there is. She seems like a woman who’s always prepared.

“You know who we actually should call, though?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Ash and Leslie. ”

Melissa stops in her tracks. “Oh. Yeah. That would be important.”

I lightly place my hand on her lower back to prompt her to move again, and I tell myself to ignore the electricity that sparks up my arm at the touch, even through her several layers of clothing.

Regardless of her animosity toward me, it’s hard to deny my attraction to her.

I don’t know what I did to earn her extreme dislike, but something shifted between us at Randall and Wendy’s wedding last month.

Not that the two of us were friends before then, but that was the turning point when she began to actively show her disdain for me, and I have no clue why.

“I’ll call them while you grab your suitcase,” I say as we continue along.

“You don’t have another bag?” She eyes the small carry-on suitcase I’m rolling behind me.

“No. Ash has my tux and wedding shoes, and I pack light.”

“I guess so.”

“Does Leslie have your bridesmaid dress, or is it in your suitcase?” I ask.

“It’s in my suitcase—garment bag, actually. I really hope it’s at baggage claim, like they said.”

So do I. Leslie and Ash deserve to have the perfect wedding, with no mishaps like missing dresses.

Melissa adds, “Right about now, I’m wishing I’d carried it on.”

“Why didn’t you?” Seems to me that would’ve been a no-brainer.

“I didn’t want to have to schlep the bag through the airport. I don’t have a fancy-schmancy rolling suitcase like you. And yes, I realize that’s a dumb reason, but it’s the one I’ve got, so don’t give me any grief about it.”

I won’t, as long as the bag shows up, but I don’t say that.

Instead, I take her carry-on bag from her, silently chastising myself for not doing so earlier.

I may often be a jerk, but I’m usually a gentleman, as is proven by the fact that I feel bad about the way I treated the airline lady at the gate and wish I had time to go back and apologize .

Shockingly, Melissa doesn’t protest my act of chivalry, and we walk the rest of the way to baggage claim in silence. When we find the right carousel, I leave her there and head to a nearby payphone. There’s no reason to use up the battery and minutes on my cellular phone if it’s not necessary.

I reach the phone and realize I have no idea where I’m supposed to call.

I doubt it will do much good to call the hotel where the wedding party is staying.

It’s miles from Leslie’s small hometown, and nobody will be there until later today anyway.

Randall and Wendy are flying from Milwaukee, where they’ve been celebrating their first Christmas as a married couple with her family.

Diego Sanchez—my friend, client, and Ash’s boss at the Diego Sanchez Foundation—is flying from his winter home in his native Dominican Republic.

I have no idea when Ash’s mom and sisters will arrive there, and I hope they weren’t supposed to be on the same flight from Chicago as Melissa and me.

It should’ve occurred to me to check on that when we were at the gate.

Leslie and Ash are already in Arkansas, and they’re staying at Leslie’s parents’ house. I decide that’s where I should call, but I can’t remember her dad’s name. Hopefully there aren’t any other Becketts in Oakville, Arkansas.

Thankfully, the operator is helpful and connects me to the number of the Ernie Beckett residence. A woman answers the phone.

“Hi,” I say. “Am I speaking to Leslie Beckett’s mom? This is Bobby Jacobs.”

“Oh, Bobby! Hi there. Do you need to talk to Ash?”

“That would be great. Thank you, Mrs. Beckett.”

“Please call me Helen. I’ll get Ash for you.”

When Ash comes on the line, I tell him what’s happening and then ask, “Your mom and sisters weren’t on our same flight, were they?”

“No, they got here yesterday.”

“That’s good. How long is it going to take us to drive there?”

“That’s a question for Leslie. Let me get her.”

Leslie informs me that with stops, it should take us twelve to thirteen hours to get to Oakville.

“There are several routes you can take,” she explains, “but I’d stick with one that’s interstates all the way, because there’s a chance of snow north of us this afternoon and evening.

You might hit it in southern Illinois, but if you stick to the main roads, you should be okay.

I don’t want you getting stuck in the snow on some little backroad in the Ozarks.

” She tells me which highways to take, and I jot notes on the small notepad I keep in my pocket.

When I hang up, I’m about to make another quick call when I spot Melissa struggling toward me with a garment bag hanging off one shoulder and a larger suitcase in her other hand. I rush to help her and relieve her of everything but her purse.

“Thanks,” she says. “I may have overpacked.”

I chuckle. “You think?”

She glares at me, even though I was simply agreeing with her statement.

“Did you talk to them?” she asks.

As she leads the way to the parking shuttle while rolling my small suitcase, I recount my phone conversation.

She asks, “So you’re telling me we might have to drive through snow?”

“Sounds like it.”

Melissa gives me an assessing look. “Have you ever driven in snow?”

“I have not.” I’m a Southern California boy, through and through. I travel a lot, but I rarely rent a car, opting instead for taxis and other car-hire services, so I can work while riding.

“Have you seen snow?” she teases.

“Only at the movin’ picture show,” I say with a ridiculous country twang.

When she giggles, I decide I love the sound and want to hear it again.

“Seriously?”

“No,” I admit. “I go skiing several times a year.”

Melissa raises an eyebrow. “You ski?”

“What? I don’t look like I’m capable of skiing? ”

She slowly looks me up and down as we stand in line for the shuttle, and a long-dormant fluttery feeling fires up in my belly at her perusal.

“You look like you’re capable of a lot of things,” she finally says.

What’s that supposed to mean?