Christmas in Coconut Creek (Dirty Delta, #1)(124)

I should have expected that.

I fucking hated airports.

When that was through, I had enough anxiety over losing one of my sibling’s gifts to TSA that I slipped through the metal detector without taking my phone out of my pocket, becoming enemy number one of every other person in the terminal standing on the floor in their socks. I got a very friendly pat down by a very unfriendly agent, and then ditched my phone entirely into the bottom of my bag out of spite.

Dad was picking me up; he’d already let me know he was tracking the flight by the minute, so it wasn’t like I needed it. At the beginning of December the screen would have been the distraction, but now it was a reminder of what I was leaving behind. Frankie promised me, though, it wasn’t the end. Simply a pause in the track. Life could continue on around us, but we would remain in place for at least a little while longer. Until the end of the month. That was one thing keeping me from coming apart completely. But not enough that I wasn’t tingling with a need to drink away some of that apprehension.

I made up for it with an hour of mimosas while I waited, chasing a couple with tequila against my better judgment and then swayed onto the bridge to the plane like a drunken pirate walking the plank.

To top off every emotion and depressant combining into their own mixed drink of sorts inside of me—it turned out I also had a middle seat.

Not only a middle seat, but one with a very large, excitable rowmate filling the aisle seat beside it. And he was dressed for Colorado. Sweater on top of sweater, fur-lined boots, a red beanie with the fuzzy pom-pom on top. The man was the live-action version of Yukon Cornelius. I pulled a deep breath through my nose as I stumbled forward, realizing I reeked of booze, and lifted onto my tiptoes to shove my carry-on into the overhead.

The compartment popped open and a giant, heavy boot came careening down and connected with the center of my forehead.

“What the—” I complained, rubbing the knot that formed immediately.

“Oh boy, that’ll be a nice egg,” the man commented. He stood, ushering me into my seat as he picked up the boot and put it back, then shoved my bag of gifts into the overhead for me, resorting to punching it repeatedly until the hatch closed.

I was past protesting. I’d tried to fight the airport and lost. Miserably.

“S’not bleeding,” my mountain man seatmate told me as he plopped back down. My seatbelt got lost somewhere underneath him and I whimpered quietly.

“Ma’am.” A flight attendant stood over us with a little plastic bag full of ice. “For your head.”

I noticed then that every single pair of eyes on the flight was turned in my direction and my skin flushed with heat.

“I won’t cause any more trouble,” I joked as I took the ice and squashed it to my wound. I actually didn’t feel a thing; the benefits of alcohol always outweigh the detriments.

“Let us know if you’re feeling dizzy, any nausea, double vision, ringing in your ears,” she requested. “Seeing things.”

“Got it.” I nodded.

“Taking off in just a few minutes,” she replied kindly.

My eyes fluttered closed as she disappeared and the attention on me subsided. Which only reminded me how wickedly tipsy I was when my entire equilibrium shifted and the shuttle started spinning. God damn Natalia for being right, and fuck me for thinking I could house a couple hours’ worth of drinks in a couple minutes on an empty stomach. That airplane paper bag was whispering to me.

I slid the ice down my face to rest on my neck and keep from overheating and through half-lidded eyes a familiar mop of brown hair and a faded black hat waved into focus down the aisle.

I sat up, too fast. “Frankie?”

Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.

“No, my name's Karl,” the man sitting beside me said. “You sure you’re okay?”

I blinked hard, sobering miraculously fast, the pulse in my neck picking up in my ears.

“I’m fucking seeing things, Karl.” My fingers clamped around the metal armrests and my gut twisted the closer he came. Until it was undeniable that Frankie was stalking toward us, head shifting side to side scanning the already filled seats. “Frankie!” I shouted louder.

He looked up, nostrils flaring and gaze hooking onto mine. I could tell he was out of breath from running. He lifted his hat, passing a shaky hand through his hair and replacing it with renewed determination.

“What are you doing here?” My mind raced. “Why are you—”

“I don’t want to wait until the end of the month to see you.”

Every single humming conversation came to a deafening halt around us.

My lips parted, astonished. “What?”

“He said he doesn’t want to wait until the end of the month to see you,” Karl reiterated from between us.

“I—thank you, Karl. I think I got this.” I actually couldn’t believe what I was seeing, that he was standing in front of me. The plane was about to take off to Colorado, which meant…

He came for me.

“I don’t understand,” I told him. “I thought…”

“It’s simple,” he started, fingers fidgeting at his sides. He took a deep, centering breath. “I don’t want to be away from you. I don’t want to wait to have you again. I don’t want to waste another day of this weird, insane, intense fucking thing that we’ve made together.”