Page 11 of Wild Card

He blinks. And blinks again. He looks so floored by what I’ve just said, I can’t keep myself from smiling.

I’m about to turn from him, ready to face the walkway, but his words bring me up short.

“What are we calling tonight, then?”

Blood rushes in my ears. I expected him to grumble and balk at my teasing, but here he is, arms crossed, stance wide, calling me out.

I can hear the threads of hope in his voice, which brings heat to my cheeks.

“Oh, tonight? Tonight is just our meet-cute. It’s the night we’ll tell our kids about one day. Remember?”

He quirks a brow, and I realize how what I just said sounds given the context. Embarrassment hits me hard and fast. If my cheeks were warm before, they’re downright boiling now. My entire face feels like lava.

God, he must think I’m totally nuts. Maybe he already has children. I could be lusting over a perfectly happy family man.

My eyes drop to his left hand. No wedding band.

“Respectively,” I clarify quickly, pointing a finger back and forth between us. “Our respective children. Separately.”

His expression remains unchanged.

Things are already awkward, so I add one more parting shot with a little shrug for good measure. “Or not.”

His head bucks back as though I’ve hit him, and I revel in even the most subtle reaction. But not for long. Recovering quickly—and partly because I’m eager to put some space between us—I turn away and call out a rushed, “On-your-marks-get-set-go!”

Then I turn and take off.

For several seconds, I can only hear my own footfalls as I struggle against the opposing motion of the walkway. A small giggle spills from my lips. Because honestly, I’m being ridiculous, and I’m well aware of it.

This stoic, almost-forty-year-old man will not want to do the equivalent of trying to go up the down escalator.

But I don’t let that stop me.

My arms pump as I work my way farther down. This is me. I still want to be silly sometimes. I love to explore. I like to look at the glass as half-full. Hell, I will happily make lemonade.

I’ve worked too hard in recent years at accepting and loving myself to let one random, grumpy guy in an airport make me second-guess who I am?—

My thoughts come to a screeching halt. Because I hear it. And Ifeelit.

Heavy footfalls. The change in the air around me—it’s warm, and it hums as he pulls closer.

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.

And for the first time, he laughs. It bursts from his throat like it’s a relief to let it go.

It gives me the fucking giggles.

The end of the walkway is in sight, and I’m already out of breath, but laughing like this? All breathless and grinning like a loon? It takes me out. I slow down. Bash is close, and I know he’s going to pass me and win.

But that’s okay. He kind of seems like he could use a win today.

Ten feet from the end of the belt, I give up and drop my hands to my knees, doubling over. I prepare to eat his dust and get my laughter under control.

But he stops beside me, mimicking my position. The space is narrow enough that we end up shoulder to shoulder again. The ramp continues moving, slowly taking us backward, the odd laugh spilling from our lips between heavy breaths.

“Fuck, Gwen. You…” I peek over at him, and his eyes are trained on the belt below us as he shakes his head before settling on, “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

“What? To race some weird girl in the airport?”