The Kiss Keeper

by Krista Sandor

  “Please! This is a big day, and I need him with me. I could really use your help,” she pleaded.

  “Text him,” he grumbled.

  Better to get this shit over with quickly.

  Clicks peppered the air as the woman went to town, typing out a message.

  She met his gaze. “Okay, I sent it.”

  He watched as the boyfriend glanced at his phone, then pocketed it.

  “I don’t know if he got it?”

  “Oh, crap! A text just came in from my mom. Maybe that messed it up. Let me text her, and then I’ll send him another.”

  She was back at it, texting like a tween on a sugar high.

  “Okay, I responded to my mom, and I sent my boyfriend the second text,” she replied breathlessly.

  He spied the boyfriend and…shit!

  The guy wasn’t responding to the texts because he was with another woman. A damn attractive woman.

  “Well, what’s happening?” she asked with those expectant eyes.

  “He’s saying hello to some woman,” Jake answered, choosing his words carefully.

  The crazy line lady nodded. “That’s all right. He travels a bunch for work. There’s a good chance he could run into a colleague at the airport.”

  Jake observed as the boyfriend proceeded to not only lay a kiss on this colleague but grab a handful of her ass as they engaged in some major airport PDA.

  He slid his gaze from the exhibitionists to his crazy line lady, surprised by how much it pained him to have to break the news to her. Why the hell should he care if she got dumped? She was no one to him.

  He schooled his features. “I’m pretty sure he’s not your boyfriend anymore.”

  “What?” she whispered in a wretched squeak, then spun around in time to see the boyfriend lift the other woman into his arms, press her back to a pillar and start dry-humping next to a sign directing passengers not to leave their baggage unattended.

  She held her phone to her chest. “Oh my, God! I got dumped, and I lost my job on the same day.”

  “And you’re holding up the line. Move it, sister!” called an angry voice from behind.

  His crazy line lady stared up at him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  He should ignore her. He should pop in his earbuds and pretend that he had to take a call. But for whatever reason, he couldn’t.

  “Is that yours?” he asked, gesturing to a large bag slumped on the ground.

  “Yeah,” she answered in a daze.

  He picked up the heavy canvas tote and set it on top of his roller bag. “Come on. We need to move forward.”

  She nodded and followed him like a sleepwalker.

  What the hell was he supposed to say to this newly dumped and recently unemployed crazy lady now? He was probably the least qualified person in the entire airport to counsel someone on devastating life events. Thank Christ, she didn’t say much as they wove their way through the security line.

  They handed their tickets to the TSA agent and were funneled into a screening line when she gripped his arm and pointed to a woman ahead of them.

  “Why is that lady taking off her jacket?” she asked, panic lacing her words.

  He glanced down at her. “TSA rules. Coats and bulky clothing can set off the scanner.”

  She pulled the trench tighter around her chest. “I can’t take off this coat!”

  “Why not?”

  She waved him down. “I’m only wearing lingerie underneath it.”

  Now that was a damn surprise. He reared back, and his face must have registered his amazement because his crazy line lady gasped.

  She pressed her hands to her hips and frowned. “Do I not seem like the type of woman to do that? Do I not strike you as someone who is sexually adventurous?”

  Holy hell! This was getting into some dangerous territory, and he didn’t even know this woman’s name.

  “Honestly?” he sputtered.

  With fire in her eyes, she cocked her head to the side. “Yes, honestly!”

  “No, you seem like the exact opposite of that kind of woman. You seem more like a leggings and a baggy sweater kind of person. The lingerie under a trench is a nice move—don’t get me wrong—but one best done on a private plane without the possibility of going through a pat-down.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “What are we going to do?”

  We?

  How had they become a we in less than fifteen minutes?

  He glanced at the agents. “We’ll play it cool. I travel a decent amount, and I recognize one of the guys working. Let me try to talk to him.”

  Relief softened her expression, and she smiled so sweetly that he nearly bent down and kissed her plump lips.

  “Ma’am, you need to remove your jacket to go through the scanner.”

  Their moment disintegrated at the sound of the TSA agent’s voice, and his crazy line lady stiffened.

  “I can’t. This isn’t a jacket. It’s…a dress.”

  “It looks like a jacket,” the agent shot back.

  “Nope, it’s a dress,” she repeated nervously.

  “Hey, Benny,” he said, extending his hand and praying his crazy line lady came off as someone uneasy about flying instead of a complete nutcase.

  The agent’s annoyed demeanor dialed down a notch as they shook hands. “Jake Teller, how are you doing, man?”

  “Your name is Jake?” his crazy line lady exclaimed, gripping the sleeve of his suit and staring at him like she was…well, pretty damn crazy.

  “You know this lady, Jake?” the agent asked.

  Jake leaned in toward her like he was going to kiss her but stopped a breath short of his lips touching her earlobe. “Air travel 101: Don’t act crazy,” he whispered.

  She gave a minute nod and tightened her grip on his arm.

  He slapped on his slickest smile. “Yeah, we’re together. This is a game we play, right?”

  His crazy line lady nodded. “Yeah, I date a lot of Jakes, so it’s an inside joke between us, right…Jake?”

  The agent eyed her skeptically. “How many Jakes have you dated in your life, lady?”

  Jake was thinking the same damn thing.

  “Counting him?” she asked, dead serious.

  “Yeah, counting him,” the agent answered with a hint of amusement, which was damn better than suspicion when interacting with a government security official.

  She glanced up, her thumb making tiny nervous circles against his skin. “Well…he’s number seven,” she answered, holding his gaze as a strange déjà vu vibe seemed to pass between them.

  “Lucky number seven,” the agent laughed, interrupting their peculiar moment.

  “All right. You can go through in your dress,” the man said, waving her into the scanner’s chamber.

  Jake set their bags on the conveyer belt and followed her. Thank God she didn’t have an Uzi or a ten-gallon jug of bleach in her heavy as fuck carry-on. They picked up their items, and he was ready to part ways when her hand was back on his forearm.

  “Let me buy you a drink or a snack or something to thank you for your help. You’ve been the brightest part to literally one of the worst days of my life,” she said with that damn sweet smile.

  He stared at her. He hadn’t really looked at her yet.

  “Did you cut yourself? You’ve got a red mark on your cheek,” he asked.

  Her hand flew to her face. “It’s probably a little paint. I am…I mean, I was an elementary school art teacher.”

  She’d brushed at her cheek but missed the spot. Without thinking, he stroked his thumb over the pale streak on the apple of her cheek, and the red bit of paint flaked away, and time stopped.

  They stood there, staring at each other while travelers veered around them as if a protective bubble surrounded them, and again, he felt the urge to kiss her. She bit down on her lip, and her inadvertent sultry move diverted his blood supply south to his cock. He took a lock of her hair and twisted it around his
finger, mesmerized by this stranger when a baby wailed nearby, and the bubble popped. He released the lock of chestnut hair as his blood supply rerouted back to his brain. He was not one of those idiots who could get so wrapped up in a woman that he’d block traffic in the middle of an airport. He dropped his hand from her cheek to rest on her shoulder, and his thumb brushed her collarbone.

  “Oh!” she gasped, staring at him as if she recognized him when the last call for his flight to Portland rang out over the intercom.

  He glanced past her. “That’s my flight.”

  Her eyes went wide. “That’s my flight!”

  He shook his head. Fucking hell!

  “Come on! We have to run. Give me your bag.”

  She reared back. “Are you going to try to steal it?”

  He threw up his hands. “I just got you past TSA. We’re in a completely secure building. Where the hell do you think I’m going to go with your bag?”

  “If you tried to steal my bag, it’s not like I could chase you. I can’t run in heels. I’m not really a stiletto girl,” she added, staring down at her sexy as hell and as impractical as fuck footwear.

  “Christ,” he bit out, dreading what he had to do.

  Before she could stop him, he scooped her up into his arms and slung her over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked.

  “Getting us on that plane,” he said, grabbing their bags and setting off toward the gate.

  “Like this? Carrying me, like a sack of potatoes?”

  “I can’t be the first Jake that’s done this to you. You’ve dated seven of us.”

  She pounded her fists against his back. “I’ve dated six Jakes. And I wouldn’t call what we’re doing as dating. This is more like manhandling.”

  The gate came into sight, and he switched from a jog to a full sprint. “Congratulations, you can now say you’ve been manhandled by a Jake. Just add it to your Jake list.”

  But she’d stopped wiggling.

  “Are you okay, Heels?” he asked.

  “Are we going to make it? My family already thinks I’m a flighty idiot who can’t keep a job. Oh, Jake, I can’t miss this plane!” she cried, her voice bobbling as she jostled with each of his strides.

  He couldn’t miss the plane either. He had five million reasons to get to Maine.

  “Hold the door, your last two passengers are here,” he called to the gate agent.

  The woman glanced down at an iPad. “Passengers Teller and Callahan?”

  He patted her thigh. “Is that you, Heels? You’re Callahan?”

  “Yes, Natalie Callahan. That’s me,” she answered, from somewhere near his lumbar spine.

  He stopped in front of the gate agent and handed her his ticket.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Do you mind putting your girlfriend down, sir?”

  “Yeah, Jake, I’m good to walk the jet bridge on my own, and I’m getting a little woozy with all the upside-down running.”

  He stared down at the dangling red stilettos—a stark reminder that he had an actual person slung over his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he stammered and removed the woman from his body.

  The agent took their tickets. “All right, you two, go! The pilot is not going to be happy if we keep the plane waiting any longer.”

  “Lead the way, Heels,” he said and followed half a step behind his crazy line lady who had a name.

  Natalie Callahan.

  It suited her—the lightness of it. It made him think of the sun peeking in from the blinds, cutting through the darkness.

  He pushed the pussy-poetic musing out of his head and ran his hand down the scruff of his jaw. After that mad dash, he needed a stiff drink and a few hours of quiet.

  “Welcome to First Class, Miss Callahan. You’re in seat 3B.”

  He glanced at his ticket.

  2A. Thank you, Universe!

  At least he wasn’t going to be stuck sitting next to her. He stowed his bag, then settled himself in the window seat next to an older gentleman.

  He nodded to the man, and the man nodded back, and relief washed over him. That minute exchange was international man language for I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me.

  This gentleman was most likely another business traveler who’d know better than to engage in a round of twenty questions. Jake sat back, closed his eyes, so ready to just breathe for a damn second when a woman’s voice cut through the hum of conversations buzzing inside the plane.

  “Gary, this lovely young woman said she wouldn’t mind switching seats so we can sit together.”

  Jake opened his eyes to find his crazy line lady standing in the aisle.

  Jesus! He could not catch a break. Come on, karma. He’d helped her get through security and catch a flight! Now, all he wanted was some damn downtime to work.

  Natalie sat down next to him, all smiles.

  “I’ve never flown First Class,” she said as the flight attendant handed them each a flute of champagne.

  He glanced at his new seatmate. “I’m going to need a Jameson on the rocks. Make it a double.”

  Natalie downed her glass then gestured to his. “Do you want it?”

  He shook his head, and she polished off his champagne in no time flat.

  Perfect! He was seated next to a newly dumped, recently unemployed alcoholic.

  “You may want to go easy on the bubbles,” he offered.

  He had to get her out of his head. That paint on the cheek bullshit and their googly-eyed antics could not happen again.

  She gave him a weak smile. “I’m a little nervous. I thought it might take the edge off.”

  The flight attendant handed him his drink, then refilled both champagne flutes.

  Natalie polished off both before he’d even taken one sip of his whiskey.

  “I’m not a big drinker,” she said with a hiccup.

  He closed his eyes. “You could have fooled me.”

  She released an audible breath. “So, why are you going to Maine?”

  Here we go. Twenty questions.

  He never talked business on a plane. Over the years, he’d gotten many tips, listening in on so-called professionals, clucking loudly about financial troubles or upcoming shifts in the market. Nope, he kept his damn mouth shut.

  “A little recreation and some peace and quiet,” he added, hoping she’d take the hint.

  She didn’t.

  “My grandparents live in Maine. It’s their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They’re having the whole family fly in for it. And my family is pretty big and can be a little overwhelming, like the Kennedys.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Your family’s in politics?”

  “No,” she answered with a shake of her head.

  “You’re Irish Catholic?”

  “Nope,” she said as the flight attendant refilled the glasses.

  “So, your family is nothing like the Kennedys,” he challenged.

  She downed a glass. “It’s a big family,” she replied as her cheeks grew pink from the champagne.

  “Sounds like fun,” he answered dryly.

  “Where are you staying?” she pressed.

  “I’m not sure. I’m playing it by ear.”

  That was the truth. He hadn’t even looked into lodging. His security line capers with Heels over here had deprived him of all rational thought for the past half hour. He was about to connect to the plane’s Wi-Fi and get on that when his seatmate tapped on the television screen embedded in the seat in front of her like a toddler.

  “This is some tricky stuff,” she said with a slight slur.

  There’s the bubbly kicking in.

  “Put on your seatbelt, Heels. They don’t let you watch TV during the safety demo.”

  She crossed her legs and gazed at her footwear. “I thought I could be that girl. I thought that’s what he wanted,” she mused, the ache in her voice near palpable.

  Fucking Jake number six! He cursed the douche who shared
his name. Thanks to him dumping his girlfriend, now he—Jake the seventh—was stuck picking up the pieces.

  “Sit back,” he said, then fastened her belt for her as she ran her finger down the spike of her heel.

  The flight attendant began the safety demonstration as the plane taxied to the runway, and despite knocking back nearly an entire bottle of champagne, his crazy line lady paid attention.

  Probably the teacher in her.

  He mentally punched himself. She means nothing. She’s some lady having a shit day. Some lady who looked stunning in a trench, and, despite not being able to run in heels, she wore the hell out of them.

  Natalie remained quiet through the safety demo and didn’t say a word as the plane took off and hit its cruising altitude. He almost thought he was in the clear when she turned to him, all shining emerald eyes and a trembling bottom lip.

  “You’re a good person, for a Jake,” she said then hiccupped.

  He handed her a napkin, and she dabbed at her eyes.

  “Sorry, I get a little tipsy and emotional with champagne and tequila and rum and wine. Jake number two from college would always say—”

  “Let me guess, that you’re a lightweight,” he finished.

  Her face lit up. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said.”

  “Maybe you should steer clear of Jakes,” he offered.

  She leaned in. “You’re not so bad.”

  He wanted to tell her he was bad, probably one of the worst Jakes out there. He only cared about making money. But he couldn’t get the damn words out.

  She drummed her fingers on the armrest. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should give up Jakes. In all the years of dating them, not one ever put me first. And come to think of it, they were all pretty awful in the end.”

  “There you go,” he replied.

  “And do you know what else I need to steer clear of, Jake number seven?” she asked, all earnest eyes and kissable lips.

  He shook his head.

  “My witch cousins and their toe obsessed perverted husbands.”

  He reared back. “Your what?”

  She sunk into the seat. “Leslie and Lara and their husbands. They’re awful, and they’re all podiatrists.”

  He didn’t know any podiatrists but couldn’t imagine that all of them were awful.

  “Are they bad doctors?” he asked, needing some clarification.