“Afternoon.” The lady behind the counter greets us. “Can I help you find something?”
“No,” I say, just as the man next to me holds up my grungy bag.
“We need a new backpack. Preferably the same size. Maybe with reinforced straps.”
At the last sentence, he cuts his eyes down to mine.
I bite down on a smile, secretly enjoying that he’s teasing me. “I can’t let you do this.”
“You can and you will, Angel.”
I blink up at him.
My thick hair is a little longer than shoulder length, and I have it pulled back into a plain high ponytail. My makeup is probably half melted off my face. And my bright yellow wrap dress is just shy of indecent with how much cleavage the low neckline shows.
There’s nothing angelic about my appearance.
Taking my silence as acceptance, he turns his attention to the display the salesperson has pointed out.
“What color?” the man asks, holding my bag up, showing that there isn’t one the same shade of green.
I sigh. “Black is fine.”
“Gold or silver?” He’s asking about the metal accents, but I’m distracted, noticing that he’s no longer carrying my broken cookie.
Did he throw it away? How did he do that without me noticing?
“Gold.” He answers his own question as his hand slides up my back.
He drags a finger across the thin gold chain clasped around my neck and the tiny heart charm dangling just below my throat.
Goose bumps cover my arms. And they only get worse when he lifts his hand higher, his thumb brushing over my matching tiny gold heart earrings.
When I feel like I’m about half a second away from an overstimulated heart attack, his tattooed hand leaves my body.
He doesn’t even ask more, doesn’t check with me. He just picks up the black bag with shiny gold hardware and carries it to the register.
Knowing I’ve lost, that this bag is getting purchased, I chase after him.
If I can get my card out of my broken bag, maybe I can quickly swipe it through the reader and pay whatever ungodly amount myself before he can buy it.
I really can’t let a stranger pay for this.
He’s already at the counter when I catch up. And it’s like he knows what I’m planning, because when I reach for the front zipper pocket, where my wallet is stored, he lifts his arm and hugs the bag to his chest.
The lady scans the tag, displaying the total on the little screen.
“Oh my god!” I classlessly exclaim before I start to tug on the man’s arm, making a point to ignore the silky-soft suit jacket under my fingers. “Please let me pay for that.” I swallow, thinking of the total. “Or, better yet, just let me keep the broken one. It’s fine.”
It’s not that I can’t spend that amount. It’s just that I’m… frugal.
The man’s dark eyebrow is quirked when he looks over his shoulder at me. “You always this stubborn, Valentine?”
Hearing him say my name, my full name, stuns me long enough for him to hand a card to the cashier.
“How do you…？” Then I look at my backpack that’s hugged to his chest.
Ah, yes. My bright yellow name tag, with Valentine Gandy written in careful letters, is right in front of his face.
A fresh wave of embarrassment floods my system. Something about this man tells me he doesn’t write his name on his luggage. He probably just narrows his eyes at his suitcase, daring it to get lost.
While he finishes the transaction, I stand back and really take him in. His black leather shoes and dark navy suit. The swirling black tattoos peeking out above his collar and crawling up to his hairline on the back of his neck. The way his shoulder muscles round underneath the blue fabric. How I feel so small next to him. But small in a feminine way, not an insignificant way.
Crinkling pulls my attention back to the counter.
The salesperson has removed the bundle of paper stuffed inside the new bag, used to keep its shape. And before I can worry about the man trying to move all my stuff into the new bag, he sets my broken backpack next to the new one on the counter and takes a step back.
“Thank you.” His deep voice says the words at the same time I do, causing him to smile.
Again. And he’s just as startlingly handsome as the first time.
I give my head a little shake. “Why are you thanking me?”
“Because.” He nods his head toward the pair of backpacks. “My mother would kill me if she knew I broke some pretty lady’s bag in the airport and didn’t replace it.” I think my lips move as I silently repeat the words pretty lady, but he doesn’t pause. “She’d also kill me for going through your things, so I’ll let you do the honors.”