by Max Monroe
He shrugged. “Sorry, Mom. But this is Quinn Bailey, and he just tried to give up his spot in line for us! He should be on a private plane or some sh—stuff.”
I laughed and smiled at the kid and then his mother. “Listen to your mama, Jeremy. Manners are important.” I cocked my head to Luke at the counter. “That guy never listened to his mama. Guaranteed.”
Jeremy laughed and jerked up his chin.
I signed a few more autographs, letting people move up to the counter as they passed me in line and only stepped away when my phone rang in my pocket.
“Hello?” I answered, leaning into one of the walls in a little hallway that jutted off to the side to try to get some privacy. The main terminal was jam-packed with bodies weaving in and out, trying to be polite to the people around them and cutting them off with no remorse at the same time. It was funny to watch from the sidelines.
“I called the airline, and there aren’t any flights with seats on them until Tuesday,” my assistant, Jillian, said in my ear without any pleasantries or greeting.
She’d been with me for the last three years, and she was more efficient than anyone else I knew. My world was hers to command, such was her badassery.
Her voice wasn’t happy now, though, obviously feeling a little bitter about working when I’d supposedly given her three days off.
“So, basically, unless I want to stay in Atlanta until it’s time to go home again, I’m fucked on the flight side.”
“Basically.”
“So, what are my other options?”
“Teleportation?” she replied testily.
I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry I called you. But I was on hold for fifteen minutes, and the line at customer service was hella long. Then I got into it with a guy from my flight—”
“Got into it? Jesus Christ, Quinn! Now Nathan is going to be calling me. This was supposed to be my chance to have sex with my boyfriend uninterrupted.”
“Oh God. Too much information, Jilly.”
“Deal with it.”
I collected my thoughts as I took her order to heart. Nathan, my publicist, was going to be calling her nonstop. And then, when he couldn’t reach me—because no way in fuck was I going to answer his calls—he’d be bothering her even more. Her ability to have some kinky orgy with her boyfriend would be grossly diminished, and if it were me getting my sex party interrupted, I’d be annoyed too.
“So, what are my options here? And don’t say goddamn teleportation again. If I had the ability, I would have done that from the start.”
“A rental car.”
“Perfect.” I smiled and shoved to standing at full height again. “I’ll head over there now.”
Jilly sighed in my ear. “Don’t bother. I already called, and they’re all gone.”
Denial ran strong through my veins. “All of them?”
“All.”
“Even the Mini Coopers?” No way every fucking rental car in this airport was accounted for. Right?
She scoffed. “As if you could fit in a Mini Cooper.”
“I—”
“And yes, they’re gone too.”
Goddammit.
“So…”
Planes, trains, automobiles, I recited in my head.
“What about a train?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” she cooed. “You got it, big guy. Midnight train bound for Birmingham. I got you a ticket. You just have to pick it up at the train station ticket office.”
“And you couldn’t have just told me that from the beginning?”
“Definitely not.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re fired.”
She laughed. Guffawed, really. “You wish. By the way, the train leaves in forty minutes. You’re going to want to move your ass. See you in seventy-two hours, Quinndolyn.”
Quinndolyn. She’d been talking to my brother.
“Jilly!” I snapped, but there was no one there. No one but dead air.
My purse flopped against my hip with every long stride while my carry-on bag teetered on its wheels behind me. I lifted my wrist up toward my face and did my best to check the time as the screen of my watch bounced up and down with the movements from my hurried pace.
11:55 p.m.
I had five minutes to get my ass on the train platform, and I was still making—more like sprinting—my way through the station and toward the ticket counter.
“Ticket counter?” I shouted toward a security guard standing watch near an empty entrance hallway.
He pointed toward the open doorway directly across from him, and I nodded in acknowledgment, calling “Thank you!” over my shoulder as I redirected my body to the left.
The warm humidity of a July night in Atlanta had permeated the station’s walls, making my skin feel sticky and my lungs damn near suffocated.
No doubt, my clothes and hair were a fucking mess at this point—uniform in wrinkled disarray, the long run in my hose probably reaching my waist, and my hair frizzy and damp with humidity and perspiration.
Sweat rolled down the skin of my back, and I could feel my heart throbbing inside of my chest. All of this fucking polyester RoyalAir required me to wear made me feel like I was roasting inside of my own body.
My heels click-clacked loudly across the tiled floor, echoing off the large walls as I made my way to the ticket counter at the end of the hall.
I was exhausted, and I’m sure I proved that point to the lady behind the Plexiglas window when I came to an abrupt stop in front of her, flopping my purse on top of the counter and grabbing my knees with my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered through erratic breaths as I strove to get my shit together and not pass out right in front of her. “I basically ran from the airport to get here,” I added, each of my words coming out in a short, abrupt burst.
Between my lungs being one inhale away from bursting and the Sahara that had taken up residence in my throat, I needed water. And a nap.
“The midnight train,” I forced out. “I need the midnight train to Birmingham.”
“That’ll be forty-two dollars.” She tapped her fingers across her keyboard in quick succession. “And you have exactly two minutes to get to the platform,” she updated, and her pink-painted lips frowned ever so slightly for my cause.
“Oh God,” I muttered and with a shaky hand, swiped my credit card to pay.
“You can do it,” she encouraged and slid my ticket toward me.
“And where exactly is the platform?”
“Back that way.” She pointed her finger behind me. “Take a right at the end of the hall and follow the signs toward Platform Nine. If you run, you can make it. And good news,” she said with a hopeful smile, “it looks like the train might be running about three minutes late.”
“Okay! Thank you!” I shouted as I snatched my ticket off the counter, threw my purse over my shoulder, and ran back the way I came.
I bolted down the hallway and followed the signs toward Platform Nine like an Olympic champion at the starting gun, ticket clutched tightly in my sweaty hand. I quickened my pace to an all-out sprint when what sounded like the screeching arrival of a train filled my ears. The clacking noises of my high heels resonated around the vandalized walls of the hallway with a clanging echo.
When I reached the platform, showed my ticket to the Amtrak agent, and pushed open the door that led toward the outside platform, the sticky, hot Georgia air hit my face like a sack of potatoes.
Sweet baby pickles, it’s hot as balls outside.
I looked around to find at least ten other people standing on the cement platform, waiting patiently.
“Did I make it?” I asked an older man with a gray baseball cap covering his eyes and a newspaper resting beneath his right arm. “This is the train to Birmingham, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “They just made an announcement. The train is a few minutes behind schedule.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
The train was late. I’d never been so happy for tardiness in
my life.
I set my purse on the ground beside my feet and picked at my hair. It was useless, though. My normally straightened, long brown hair had been struck by the humidity plague of the South. Surely, criminal curls had gone rogue, finding their way into my tresses and encouraging frizz and chaos.
I sighed and blew out a breath.
Choosing convenience over style, I pulled out a ponytail holder from my purse. My hair was up, gloriously off my shoulders, and secured in a messy bun just as a raucous, metallic shriek announced the arrival of the train.
It sped to a stop at the platform, standing in defiance of its current condition—all corroded iron and tacky upholstery. The doors reluctantly eased open with the force of an old station guard as if gripped by age, the handles stiff with arthritis.
As I boarded, I realized there was one benefit of taking a midnight train—hardly anyone was on it, and I managed a nice, roomy window seat all to my lonesome.
Adrenaline still pumping, I placed a hand to my chest and took several deep inhales. All of that rushing around had my heart rate cruising at a higher than normal pace.
Okay. I can relax now.
Somehow, someway, I’d fucking made it.
Settling into my self-entitled throne, I set my purse by my feet, pulled my phone out of the front pocket, and enjoyed the fact that I was no longer running through a train station like a crazed maniac.
My phone vibrated in my hands as the train started to plunge forward at an excruciating pace. Rocking back and forth, its initial whining and groaning eventually settled into a soft hum as we found our optimal speed and rhythm.
I checked the screen to find a text from Casey.
Casey: Did they take you off the flight?
Me: Hell no. Carol with the eyebrows was not having that. I’m currently sitting on a midnight Amtrak toward Birmingham.
Casey: Damn, girl, were you wearing roller skates? How in the hell did you make it to the train station that quickly?
Me: God, I wish. But I can pretty much skip going to the gym for the next month.
Not that I ever really fit gym time into my busy schedule, but that was neither here nor there. I had good intentions. Ones that generally fell through, but the motivation was still there…sort of.
Casey: I’d love to know the last time your little ass was actually in the gym.
Me: Shut up.
Casey: :) Be safe tonight. Let me know when you make it to Birmingham, okay?
Me: You got it.
Before I could put my phone back in my purse, it started ringing and vibrating in my hands. Incoming Call: Casey
What the heck?
I tapped the green phone icon with my index finger and held the phone to my ear.
“Hel—” I started to greet, but Casey’s melodic voice interrupted me.
“Just a—” he sang into the receiver, and I grimaced the instant his booming voice banged against my eardrum. He might have said something about me being a small town girl, but I was too busy trying to recover from the brain bleed.
“Oh my God,” I muttered as he went on about my lonely world, and I held the phone away from my face.
But he didn’t care. He was a man on a mission—a Journey, “Don’t Stop Believin’” mission. His voice still reached me with ease through the receiver that was no longer pressed to my ear, such was the level of his volume.
I stared down at the screen of my phone, shaking my head, amused more than anything else.
I didn’t need him to sing on about being on a midnight train to know where he got his inspiration to sing this song to me now, but he did anyway.
He belted, he enunciated—he fucking slayed—but an echo emerged anyway. It only took a few more words to realize it was two different voices, each singing to me with their own accent and inflection.
Huh? I scrunched up my nose and lifted my gaze from the screen of my phone, scanning the area around my seat to find the source.
I saw full lips moving in sync with Casey’s voice, and then I was met with familiar, way too alluring blue eyes staring back at me from across the aisle.
Holy moly. It was 2A. The handsome as hell mystery man from my flight.
With my phone still clutched in my hand, every muscle in my body froze, and my face washed blank with confusion. It was like the wheels of my brain couldn’t spin fast enough to take in the information presented in front of me.
He witnessed the surprise register on my face before I could hide it, and a small smile played on his lips. And his voice, as he sang along with Casey, was sweet and decadent like cheesecake, the richness of his tones luxurious and intense.
Internally, my brain felt like it might explode, and my heart pounded erratically in my chest as fluttering wings moved up from my belly and into my chest. Externally, I had no idea what my reaction was, but I silently prayed it wasn’t something weird like drooling or going slack-jawed.
Mr. 2A grinned, and I couldn’t do anything but stare—half shocked and completely mesmerized.
But, eventually, a grin crept on to my face and soon stretched from one side of my mouth to the other, even forcing my cheeks up toward my eyes.
They both sang in harmony about not having a particular destination, Casey through the phone, and mystery man turned vocalist from the train seat across from my mine. I hoped to all that was holy they weren’t right. This fucker better be headed for Birmingham.
Casey stopped, but my ridiculously handsome trainmate kept singing, while he simultaneously—and smoothly as hell—moved to the seat beside mine.
His soft Southern accent only added to his surprisingly natural singing ability, and I got sucked deeper and deeper into his honey trap.
“What the what, Cat? Who’s singing backup with me?” Casey asked from the phone, and my new seatmate just smirked and kept on singing, through the next verse and until he reached the part about strangers in the night and the smell of wine and cheap perfume.
“Hell-o? Cat?” Casey’s voice called from my phone, pulling me out of my mindless gawk. I lifted the phone to my ear again.
“Yeah, Case?”
“Girlfriend, are you being serenaded right now?”
“Um… Apparently?” I shrugged and giggled nervously at the same time, all the while the man who should’ve felt like a complete stranger was acting like we were anything but. He was seemingly comfortable with sharing the spot beside mine, and I watched as he pulled his duffle bag over to his feet and slid it underneath his seat.
“Apparently?” Casey questioned. “What does that even mean? Who was that?”
“Well…” I muttered and met the charming stare of Mr. Blue Eyes.
“Quinn,” he kindly answered for me, obviously privy to my phone conversation thanks to Casey’s notoriously loud voice.
Quinn. He had a name. And I imagined it would roll off my tongue perfectly.
“Who’s Quinn?” Casey asked, and then answered his own question with, “He sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”
My phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen to find a FaceTime request.
“Oh my God,” I said, and an exasperated laugh escaped my lips. “I’m not FaceTiming you right now.”
Both Casey and Quinn laughed.
“I’m also ending this call,” I added, and before quickly tapping the red phone icon, I added, “Bye, Case. I’ll text you when I make it to Birmingham.”
My phone pinged with an irate text message a moment later.
Casey: Oh no, you didn’t just hang up on me…
Me: Whoops. My bad.
Casey: Before you turn off your phone and start ignoring me, tell me who the Casanova on the phone was. Girl, his voice was so dreamy…
Me: You’re never going to believe this, but…
I hit send. And, since Quinn and I were apparently the best of buddies, I turned toward him and pointed the camera of my phone toward his face. “Can you smile real quick while I take a picture?”
Casey will die when he
finds out who was singing with him.
Quinn didn’t bat an eye, grinning directly toward me and showing no signs of insecurity. “Just make sure you get my good side, okay?”
“Your good side?” I questioned with a laugh, and he nodded.
From my viewpoint, there were no bad sides to be seen. Only good, better, and ah-fucking-mazing.
“We can’t all have flawless skin and gorgeous smiles from all angles like you, Cat,” he said with a sexy little wink and tilted his head slightly to the left. “This is my good side, by the way.”
There was no difference. Left, right, backward, forward, upside-fucking-down, every side looked like perfection from where I sat.
Wait… Was he hitting on me?
I sure fucking hope so…
My cheeks heated and flushed. Hell, they were probably one more sly compliment away from bursting into flames.
This man was dangerous, and I wasn’t sure if it was in the very best or worst way.
In the wise words of Uncle Jesse, Have mercy.
As I snapped a picture, I couldn’t stop myself from taking additional inventories of his face, his body, his overall demeanor. You’d think I’d managed enough ogling opportunities on the plane, but for some insane reason, I still craved more.
It’s because he’s so fucking beautiful to look at.
I quickly decided no one feature made Quinn so crazy handsome, though his blue eyes came close. People often spoke of the color of eyes, as if that were of importance, yet Quinn’s would probably be beautiful in any shade. From them came this intensity, a playfulness, an honesty, a gentleness, and this unquestionable, yet very palpable, charm.
My phone vibrated in my hands, and I startled, my eyes flicking down to the screen.
Casey: Hello???
Casey: WHAT AM I NEVER GOING TO BELIEVE???
I grinned, and as I attached the picture to my text response, Quinn asked, “Well, did you get my good side?”
I sent the message to Casey and met his blue as the ocean eyes. “You looked all right, I guess.”
