Page 13 of Wild Card

I feel like a teenager again—that hot, fluttery feeling unfurling in my chest because a cute boy just asked me for my number. But this is so much better because he’s a hotman. With big fucking hands and a deep fucking voice.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I volley, falling back on self-deprecation because there’s this little mean, vain part inside me that still feels unworthy of this kind of attention.

You’re too big.

You talk too much.

Your optimism is obnoxious.

They’re hard insecurities to shake, especially when they were planted so young, reinforced by the words I grew up hearing. But I’ve come to embrace these parts of myself. Most days, I believe they are some of my best qualities. Other days, I hear my dad’s voice in my head. And I hate it.

“Gwen. Your number.” Bash watches me carefully, phone in his hand, ready to input my contact information.

I give my head a shake and stop coming up with reasons I might not be worthy of his attention. “555-555-7699.”

He nods along, inputting the numbers with an excruciating level of focus. The broad pad of his index finger types on the screen as he repeats the numbers back to himself.

It’s adorable.

“Last name?”

I flush. Last names feel serious. And yet, there is something serious about what happened tonight. A connection. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve met a lot of people in my life but they don’t get under my skin the way Sebastian Rousseau has.

It’s borderline unnerving. It has my sleep-deprived brain reaching for reasons why we shouldn’t get our hopes up about meeting again.

“I’m kind of nomadic and move around a lot. I don’t have a home base.”

It’s almost easier this way, to bow out gracefully. We could part ways and leave this one dreamy night in the past. A perfect memory, untarnished by any outside forces.

He just shrugs, clearly not feeling the same. So sure. So direct. “I don’t care. I’ll figure it out. I want to see you again.”

I giggle, the punch-drunk feeling of having pulled an all-nighter settling in to accompany my giddiness over this entire situation.

All I can offer him is a nod and a “Same.” Because what else does a girl say to that?

We spend the next hour wandering the terminal, drinking coffee—the coffee shops now blessedly open—to keep ourselves from fading. He tells me about his contracting business, and I tell him about my dream of opening a yoga studio one day. All the while, I do my best to ignore the growing sense of dread in my gut.

Eventually our clock runs out.

He boards his flight, and as I watch him leave, I see the way he glances back over his shoulder, brows drawn low as he searches for me. A thrill races down my spine at the stoic parting wave he gives me.

And I tell myself it’s just goodbye for now and not forever.

Because the world works in mysterious ways, and it would never squander a meet-cute like ours.

CHAPTER FIVE

BASH

Bash: Hey. It’s Bash.

Bash: From the airport.

I’m not a big texter. But I text Gwen as soon as I land.

Fifteen years ago, I might not have. Now, I’m too fucking old to play mind games. I’m interested. Simple as that.

I don’t know her last name. Or if she lives in Toronto or was just visiting. I only know that she was on her way back from a yoga retreat in Mexico and that I had more fun with her than I have with anyone in a very long time.