What are the Chances

by Brittany Taylor

  What Are the Chances

  Copyright © 2019 by Brittany Taylor & Ashley Munoz & ZetaLife LLC

  ISBN: 9781072224631

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book whether in electronic form or physical book form, may be reproduced, copied, or sold or distributed in any way. That includes electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other form of information sharing, storage or retrieval system without the clear, lawful permission of the author. Except for limited, shareable quotes on social media, or for the sake of a review. There is absolutely no lawful permission permitted to upload a purchased electronic copy of this book to any free book sites. Screenshots of book text or kindle passages are not allowed to be shared on any public social media site without written permission from one of the authors.

  This book is a work of total and complete fiction. The story was thought up from the authors curious and thoughtful brains. Any names, places, characters, businesses, events, situations or incidents are all made up. Anything resemblances to a real, similar, or duplicated persons or situations is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Alora Kate

  Formatting: Just Write Creations & Services

  Editing: Personal Touch Editing

  Also by Ashley Munoz: (All available in KU)

  Glimmer

  At First Fight: A Fade Novella

  Fade

  Also by Brittany Taylor (All available in KU)

  Without You

  Without Me

  Dissipate: A Back to Me Novella

  Back to Me

  Dedicated to our Book Beauties-

  We love you and appreciate all your support, without you we couldn’t keep going. – Love, Ash & Britt

  Chapter 1: Charlotte

  Chapter 2: Mason

  Chapter 3: Charlotte

  Chapter 4: Mason

  Chapter 5: Charlotte

  Chapter 6: Mason

  Chapter 7: Charlotte

  Chapter 8: Mason

  Chapter 9: Charlotte

  Chapter 10: Mason

  Chapter 11: Charlotte

  Chapter 12: Mason

  Chapter 13: Charlotte

  Chapter 14: Mason

  Chapter 15: Charlotte

  Chapter 16: Mason

  Chapter 17: Charlotte

  Chapter 18: Mason

  Chapter 19: Charlotte

  Chapter 20: Mason

  Chapter 21: Charlotte

  Chapter 22: Mason

  Chapter 23: Charlotte

  Chapter 24: Mason

  Epilogue: Charlotte

  Acknowledgements

  Contact

  Charlotte

  EVERY INCH OF ME is sweating—my palms, my forehead, my armpits—everything. It’s problematic because people are looking—the business guy in the suit, heading toward some snazzy, elitist lounge is definitely judging my pit stains. I resist the urge to look down and see if my boob sweat is showing—if it is, I’m going to die. I’ll fall over right here and just let it end.

  I had no idea flying was going to be this stressful. Security was a nightmare. Just keeping up with everyone who was partially stripping while keeping up with their little plastic tubs on the conveyor belt had me in hives. Walking through the metal detector with my hands up had me hyperventilating, and when it started beeping, I almost started screaming I didn’t have a bomb.

  I thought once I was through the five layers of hell, things would calm down, but I had no idea how much walking was going to be involved when I agreed to this trip. And how hot was it in here? Did they have the heat higher than it needed to be? I mean its California, heat is not necessary.

  I’m just nervous. It could be the nerves around the fact I have never flown before or the irritation around the fact my boyfriend of two years was supposed to make this trip with me but had—conveniently—forgotten to schedule it with his job.

  Well, fuck him, fuck his job, and fuck the group of teenage girls huddled around the damn magazine rack, blocking a huge chunk of walkway. My mood is slowly sliding down the proverbial slope as I gain more territory toward my specified departure zone.

  Gate G? How many gates are in this place?

  Frustration burns in my belly as I veer down yet another carpeted hall, packed to the brim with travelers and rolling suitcases. Finally, I roll my carry-on to a stop in front of a small area sequestered to the side with rows of blue chairs, all connected to each other and nearly full of people. Large tv monitors hang off to my right with various flights and times. I verify for the hundredth time this is my gate. My flight and the time are correct, so I plop onto an open chair, anxious for boarding to start.

  I take a second to look around and try to relax, but my body reminds me how sweaty I am, and my dry throat is practically screaming for me to buy some water while I still have time. The other waiting passengers are checked out with headphones, laptops, or phones in front of their faces. I try to gauge how far away the soda machine is from my seat and determine it would be safe to leave my suitcase long enough to grab a drink. I secure my purse, leave my neck pillow, jacket, and small silver suitcase, and jog over to the vending machine. It takes all of one minute for me to buy my water, but when I turn around to head back to my seat, there’s someone there.

  I stop and look around the waiting area, making sure I’m not seeing things. Maybe I made a mistake? I glance around the room once more.

  Nope, there’s definitely a stranger sitting in the same seat I was in only moments ago. He’s shoved all my things off the chair, leaving them in a disheveled pile on the floor. I stomp back over to my now occupied seat and put my hands out in a ‘what the hell’ gesture.

  “Hey,” I say to the red-headed jerk who I assume is the one who carelessly dumped my stuff all over the floor. Small earbuds are stuffed in his ears, and a phone is plugged into the outlet next to the seat. In his lap, resting between his hands is a metal box. On top of this, he’s successfully ignoring me.

  My anger tips over the edge with his lack of regard for my presence, and I viciously wave my hands in front of his face.

  “Hey, I was sitting here.” I point an angry finger toward my pile of belongings. “This is my stuff.”

  He tips his head back and a set of gorgeous green eyes narrow. “No one was here when I sat down.” Looking back down at his phone, he ignores me, obviously refusing to engage with me any more than he deems necessary. I place my hands on my hips and stare at him. This is seriously not my day.

  “I wasn’t here, but my stuff was,” I argue. “I stepped away for two seconds to get some water.” I realize I could have moved on, let this one slide, but I couldn’t and knew this was slowly growing into a fight. What’s that saying? Don’t poke the bear? Well, I sure as shit was poking the bear, and I didn’t care.

  Seemingly annoyed, the guy yanks his headphones out with a huff and looks back up at me. “Well, I needed to charge my phone and holding spots near the outlets doesn’t exactly work in an airport, so I suggest you take your stuff and go elsewhere.” He sternly pins me with another firm stare. With the muscles of his arms flexed, he shoves his earbuds back in, clearly telling me he’s through with our conversation.

  I plant both hands on my hips again and release a loud, exhausted sigh. We still have thirty minutes before our flight takes off, and there is no way this jerk is going to kick me out of one of the few seats that isn’t already being shared with someone else. Our departure time is growing closer by the minute. I wave my hands in his face again to grab his attention.

  “Sorry, um, isn’t there a top outlet and a bottom?”

  He blinks several times before he removes only one earbud this time, his eyebrows furrowed in
confusion. When he doesn’t respond, I continue with my offer.

  “You’re only utilizing the top, so I’d like to sit where I was originally and use the bottom. You can sit next to me and use the top. Deal?”

  Why I’m willing to sit next to this stranger rather than the other randos in the room is beyond me. It might have something to do with the sad look on his face, one that matches my own.

  I would, however, like to go on record saying it has absolutely nothing to do with how freaking hot this guy is. He has feathery, dark red hair that’s shaved on the sides but left thick on the top—perfect finger running length and for grabbing during more intimate activities. Why did I just think about grabbing his hair during sex?

  My eyes are curious as they take in more of his features. He has these pouty lips men just don’t normally have. I catch myself accidently watching those lips at least fifteen times during our exchange, and each time, I’m left with a mixture of guilt laced with excitement.

  His green eyes are set under dark red eyebrows, framing his face perfectly as well as a perfectly straight nose and square jaw. He’s a damn fine specimen of humanity, and I want to do every woman everywhere a solid and take a picture. But because he might consider it stalkerish, I decide against it. Yes, I have a boyfriend, and yes, I am loyal to a fault—unfortunately. But a woman could look.

  He releases a heavy resolved sigh and scoots over one spot, leaving his long, black charging cord plugged in. I carefully sit down, ensuring I don’t mess with his cord, then connect my own phone to the bottom outlet. After making myself comfortable, I notice he’s taken his earbuds out but keeps his gaze on his phone, still clutching the metal box on his lap.

  I want to leave him alone—I should leave him alone—but at this point, we’ve gone far enough in our relationship, I feel comfortable to start up a conversation.

  “What’s with the box?” I ask, letting curiosity get the better of me.

  He gives me a brief look from the corner of his eye as a humming sound makes its way up his throat. I take a second to examine the box more carefully. It’s a solid metal box with an iron frame. It isn’t huge but definitely looks like it could maybe be big enough for a head.

  “It’s not a head, is it?” I gasp and turn toward him. “I will freak the hell out right now if you tell me there’s a head in there.” My voice has risen a fraction, causing him to look around and swear under his breath.

  “Fuck. No, it’s not a fecking head,” he scolds in a thick Irish accent. “And will you keep your voice down?”

  I sit back and gesture toward the mystery box, still not completely put at ease. “Then explain, weirdo, because I can’t get on the plane if there’s a head in that box.”

  He looks around again. “It’s not a head.” Furrowing his gorgeous, dark red eyebrows, he stares at me for a moment as though wondering if I’m crazy.

  “Will you stop?” He swallows and looks back down at his precious box. “It’s…” he trails off, so I lean in closer to hear him better. “It’s my cat. Okay?”

  I sit back in my chair and give him a confused stare.

  “What?!” My ‘t’ comes out rather harsh, but I can’t believe what I just heard. “I’m sorry. Did I hear you correctly? Your cat is in that box?” I’m still not believing what I’m hearing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone casually carrying their cat’s remains around, much less taking them on an airplane.

  He releases a sigh and turns toward me, bringing our bodies close.

  “It’s a long story, but yes, it’s my cat, Noodge. I’m taking him back home to spread his ashes.”

  I make an extra effort not to laugh or scoff. With the way he’s looking at me, I can tell he’s serious as if traveling with your cat’s ashes is completely normal.

  I swallow my retort and calmly ask, “Noodge? Your cat’s name was Noodge?”

  He watches me carefully and slowly nods. I swallow another retort and search my pale hands, hoping my mouth won’t form the damn words burning in my throat.

  With a cough I ask, “What kind of name is Noodge?” Unable to contain myself, I burst out laughing. I feel so damn terrible for it, but this had to be a joke. Thankfully, he doesn’t shove me off the chair. Instead, he simply sighs and rolls his eyes.

  “Yes, get it out now. Noodge, the cat, is dead, and I hope his freaky cat ghost corpse haunts you in your dreams for laughing at his name.”

  His comment immediately sobers me. I’m superstitious and totally don’t doubt a dead cat could haunt me.

  The overhead announcer comes on the speaker system, calling our flight information and telling us we’ll begin boarding shortly. I unplug my charger as my mystery chair mate leans over me to unplug his.

  Holy shit, his smell.

  Was this some universal test of faithfulness? I’m tempted to look around for hidden cameras—it isn’t possible for this stranger to smell like my childhood, but fuck, he does. Cedar. He smells like a cedar tree or more specifically, like the cedar jewelry box I had as a little girl. My throat swells as memories assault me from his scent, and I awkwardly stand. I quietly watch as he shoves his charger into his black backpack. After he zips it closed, he slides it onto his back and picks up the box carrying Noodge’s remains.

  The woman at the airline counter holds the phone to her mouth, speaking loudly over the intercom, announcing the start of business class boarding. I scan my ticket, not sure it means me or not. A few people push past me while the rest of us form a line. My seat mate is already near the front of the line, probably eager to get away from me, praying we aren’t destined to sit next to one another. Fine. I guess I understand. I had made fun of his dead cat. I don’t totally blame him.

  After my ticket is scanned, a nervous ball of sickness rests at the bottom of my stomach. I walk down the questionable tunnel leading to the airplane. A flight attendant stands at the open cabin door with a smile I’m assuming is meant to be comforting. She gives me an enthusiastic, “Hello,” then holds her hand out, indicating the direction I’m supposed to head as if there were any other possible way to go. Once I step onto the plane and into the aisle, I begin searching for my seat. I’m terrified of possibly sitting in the wrong one. My mind is a jumbled bundle of nerves, and I don’t necessarily trust myself when it comes to the rules of travel. I would be mortified if I sat down, got comfortable, then some bossy woman with fake nails told me to get lost. So, I triple, quadruple check 15D is, in fact, my seat, placing me closest to the aisle.

  Although I’ve eyed my seat number from where I’m standing, I still have a considerable distance to walk before I make it there. The line down the main aisle is a tricky game I’m quickly learning. Walk too fast and you slam into the person in front of you. Don’t move quick enough and the person behind you trips right into your suitcase. I feel like I’m in a pinball machine, and me and every other passenger are the pinballs. Once the line begins moving again, and the passengers start filing into their designated seats, I grunt with more frustration as my suitcase hits every seat along the way. I feel like I’ve already uttered a million apologies. Finally, when I’ve reached my row, I bend down to pick up my small, silver suitcase.

  I begin lifting the suitcase, trying to remember what I stuffed inside of it to make it so damn heavy. I don’t remember packing anything that felt like it might be carrying about fifty cement bricks. When I lift the suitcase over my head, I rest the edge of it in the overhead bin, ready to slide it in. But someone’s suitcase is already taking up the space. It’s crooked, and I grunt, sounding like a body builder lifting weights in the gym.

  “Come on!” I grit out as I shove my suitcase forward, slamming it into the one taking up all the space. I’m starting to panic, sweat filling every pore of my body. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, not so patiently waiting for me to give up and move out of the way.

  I’m about to drop my suitcase and toss it down the aisle of the plane when two large hands reach out, pushing my suitcase aside.

&nb
sp; “Jesus fecking Christ,” the stranger grits out, grabbing onto the suitcase already loaded into the overhead bin and moving it to the side. Recognizing the voice, I turn my head to see who’s behind me. My stomach dips when my eyes meet the green ones staring straight back at me. I get lost in his emerald eyes for a moment. It’s my stranger from earlier.

  Well, not my stranger.

  Nonetheless, still a stranger. The one so obsessed with his cat, he’s bringing him all the way to Ireland, just to throw him a memorial service.

  I narrow my eyes at my stranger... dammit, the stranger and remember how we first met.

  “Thanks,” I mutter under my breath.

  Once he’s finished arranging the suitcases, I huff out a frustrated sigh and heavily slide down into my seat. This flight was already experiencing turbulence, and we hadn’t even left the ground yet.

  My heart is thrashing inside my chest, and my skin warms with embarrassment. I want to disappear. I wish I could find some hole to crawl into, hiding from all the eyes I still feel watching me—especially the green ones belonging to the man who has somehow managed to stir something inside me. I’m starting to wonder if I would be able to fit under the seat in front of me, the one designated for my purse. I fight back the urge to crawl and hide, noticing how the line hasn’t moved an inch since I sat down. The pinballs have jammed up. When I look up to see why the people aren’t moving, those same two intense sexy as hell green eyes are staring directly at me.

  “Can I help you?” I ask. What was this man’s problem? Was he expecting another gesture of gratitude, another ‘thank you’?

  The corner of his mouth curling into a smirk, he points to the far seat, the one closest to the window.

  “Um, that’s my seat.”

  “What?” I ask, turning my head toward the window.

  “I was already in my seat, but I had to use the restroom,” he explains.

  “Come on. You’re holding everyone up, man,” someone says from the line. I look up as the chair thieving stranger turns his head to the man standing behind him, looking angry and frustrated. I resist the urge to laugh, thankful I’m not the only one who was holding everyone up. Instead, I stand up and allow him to take his seat. I flash the man—who made the snide comment about my new seatmate holding everyone up—a grin before turning my attention back to my row.