As I raced down the hallway, swerving among the throngs of people, I made a mental list: My glasses were in that bag. My expensive new bikini. My computer with the CAD files of my final project drawings from architecture school. Well, I certainly never wanted to see those again. If they were lost, that would be the silver lining. But I wanted everything else back. And maybe, just maybe, the person who took my bag had realized the mistake.
I was like the desperate lover in a Hallmark movie: out of breath, chest burning and hair disheveled. And I realized two things as I reached my last gate. One, if I was this winded from what couldn’t have been more than a half-mile run, I needed to seriously examine my fitness level. Two, my bag! The handle was up and a man was leaning casually against it in front of the gate agent’s counter. Well, he was pretending to, at least. If he had actually leaned on it, the four spinner wheels that worked so incredibly well would most certainly have slid out from underneath him. He grinned at me. That was when I noticed something I hadn’t noticed about a man—at least a man who wasn’t Hayes—in a long, long time: He was kind of cute. Actually, he was more than kind of cute. He was seriously, amazingly cute, with a head of short, dark hair. His shirttail hung loosely over a pair of jeans that were fitted but not so tight that they looked forced.
“My bag!” I exclaimed, so relieved I could have melted into a puddle on the floor. As I reached the man and unzipped the top pocket, I pulled out my wallet and hugged it.
“I figured you’d come back for the bomb you have in there,” he said, grinning.
I gasped. “You can’t say bomb in an airport,” I whispered.
“You’re right,” he whispered back. “And I’m glad you came back, because I have a kilo of cocaine in my bag.”
Now I rolled my eyes. “Can you even fit a kilo of cocaine in a carry-on bag?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always been a little sketchy on the finer points of pounds versus kilograms.”
I nodded. “Same.”
I finally remembered that we weren’t out for drinks. He had my bag and I had a plane to catch for, depressingly, my honeymoon.
My suitcase buddy exhaled deeply. “I was almost hoping my bag was lost.”
I needed to go but now I was intrigued. “Why in the world would you want your bag to be lost?”
“It has my shitty CAD drawings in it.”
I felt my chest go tight. “Are you an architect?” I asked hesitantly.
“That’s kind of debatable. I mean, technically, yeah. In the way that I did all the school and graduated and stuff. But do I deserve the title? Don’t know.”
I could certainly relate. Been there, failed that. “Okay, well, thanks again. I’ve got to get to Terminal C.”
I scooted his suitcase to him, but strangely, he didn’t return the gesture. Instead, he started walking, pulling them both behind him. “I’m going to Terminal C too,” he said, by way of explanation.
“Well, you’re going to get our bags mixed up again,” I huffed.
He stopped and looked at me, amused. “Oh, I am, huh? So this is all my fault?”
I smiled, remembering how anxious I had been to grab that bag before it had even touched the ground. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t all his fault.
He started walking again. “You know what, you’re right. I didn’t take your bag on purpose last time, but I might very well do it on purpose this time.”
I squinted at him.
“So I can see you again,” he said slowly, emphasizing each syllable.
God, was I this out of practice? I was, I knew. I hadn’t even considered that another man could be interested in me in so many years that I didn’t recognize his flirting.
“Well,” he said, as we reached the huge sign for Terminal C, “this is where I leave you.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Off to St. Thomas.”
He laughed. “You’re going to St.Thomas? I’m going to St. Thomas. Well, no. Not St. Thomas. The BVIs by way of St. Thomas.”
“Me too!” Suddenly things were looking up. But then I remembered. “I’m going on my honeymoon.”
He looked around. Then, understanding, said, “Oh, no…”
I nodded.
“You can’t fly to your honeymoon alone.” He walked to the desk at our gate, and I followed him for a reason I couldn’t explain.
“Excuse me,” he said, “my wife and I are on our honeymoon, but we weren’t able to book seats together.” He winked at me. “Is there any way you could help?”
The gate agent took our passports and typed for what seemed like an absurd amount of time for a simple seat change.
“All right, love birds,” she finally said. “I managed to get you seats together and a first-class upgrade too.”
“Wow! Thank you so much.” I took the few steps to the small waiting area and sat down in the navy seat that looked like it had the least amount of crumbs on it.
“I’m Julia Baxter, by the way,” I said as my “husband” sat down next to me. “Probably good to know your fake wife’s name in case we’re questioned.”
“I’m Conner Howard.” He leaned over. “I would shake your hand, but the gate agent might find that weird.”
I stopped, my mouth gaping and my mind racing, putting the pieces of what I knew about this man together frantically. “You’re Conner Howard. Like the Conner Howard?”
The man complaining about his shitty CAD drawings was the up-and-comer in the architectural world that everyone was watching, that was making every who’s who and big voice in the industry feel threatened and thrilled all at the same time. He’d been the youngest member of Architectural Digest’s AD100 this year. He was, like, my age.
I was on the verge of gushing as the voice on the loudspeaker announced, “Priority, you may board now.”
Conner, looking amused, stood and led me through the line.
“Garrison Towers is my favorite building. I mean, seriously, my favorite,” I gushed as I stepped over the metal threshold and onto the plane.
“Okay, wifey, let’s take it down a notch.” I barely noticed how nice it was of him to put our matching bags in the overhead compartment, I was so taken.
“I mean, the lines and the symmetry… The way you implemented those half floors.” I gasped.
We sat down side by side and got situated. Then he placed his hand on mine. “Are you joking?” He looked around. “Did someone put you up to this? Because there is no way anyone in the world is nerdy enough to have a favorite building, especially not one designed by me.”
“Um, no. No one put me up to this. I’m honestly just that nerdy.”
“So, are you an architect too?”
As his question seared through me, I felt the detestable scrunch between my eyes that my mom said was going to give me wrinkles. Maybe technically I was. Or, at least, could be. But I wasn’t in the habit of sharing my failures with cute plane strangers, so I just said, “You could say I’m an architecture enthusiast.” There. That was true.
“May I get you something to sip on before we take off, Mr. and Mrs.…” she trailed off.