“I—I’m not sure. Mason’s funeral is on Tuesday and I’m going to stay a few days beyond that. Candace was nice enough not to fire me when I texted her I needed the week off.”
“Dude, let’s go!” someone—Dylan I think—shouts in the background, and suddenly I realize he’s not at home like I initially assumed. He’s out and about, living his life. “Sorry,” he says. “Dylan got his dad’s skybox, and apparently Matt and he are going to have aneurysms if we’re not in it by the time they throw the first pitch.”
“Don’t miss anything on my account.” I mean it in relation to so much more than the game. I mean it in relation to his life, his career, all the wonderful new opportunities the future will bring his way. Including, no doubt, a girl who will effortlessly pass the dad background check and make Vaughn so smitten he never thinks about the girl he befriended the summer before he became a huge star.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, but Kendall, I’m here if you need me sooner.”
For a moment I can’t speak for fear of saying something that gives away how much I want to be with him, kiss him, make love with him until the world stops and it’s just us. Finally, I manage a very choked, “Okay. Thanks.” We disconnect, and my poor heart aches again from the strain of another small good-bye.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vaughn
I place my size tens on the stenciled yellow footprints, cross my wrists over my head, and let the body scanner do its thing. For about five seconds I’m an island of stillness in a sea of constant motion, separate from the conversations, loudspeaker announcements, and general chaos of LAX.
When the TSA technician waves me forward, I offer her a quick “Thanks” and walk to the end of the conveyor belt spitting out a steady stream of carry-on bags and plastic bins full of electronic devices, wallets, keys, and other personal paraphernalia. My stuff has cleared the screening tunnel but not the plastic barrier designed to keep all us impatient passengers from grabbing our shit right out of the mouth of the X-ray machine. Over the ambient noise of people and technology, I hear the distinct and familiar sound of my ringtone. It’s only a bag and a bin away, but the older woman in front of me struggles to lift her carry-on off the conveyor, which creates a momentary backup.
“Can I help?” I question while bringing the wheeled bag down for her.
“Thank you.” She beams her appreciation as I extend the retractable handle and spin the luggage so it faces her.
“No problem.” Leaning past her, I take my sunglasses and ringing phone out of the bin.
“Don’t want to miss a call from your girlfriend?” she teases.
I smile and shake my head while noting the unfamiliar number flling the screen of my phone. “No girlfriend, I’m afraid. She won’t have me.”
“Well, then, you’ll just have to work harder to change her mind.”
“That’s my plan,” I reply, and shoot her a thumbs-up at the same time I hit the button to take my call. “Hello?”
“Vaughn Shaughnessy?” A woman with a crisp British accent asks, and I immediately picture Miss Moneypenny sitting behind a tidy desk at MI6, wearing a phone headset.
“Yes.” My gut tightens for reasons I can’t attribute to lifting my carry-on bag off the conveyor.
“Please hold for Mr. Cowie.” I hear a faint click and then music flows into my ear. Laney Albright’s first single now competes with an amplified security reminder about unattended bags.
Holy shit. This could be it. This could be “the call.”
I’m almost to my gate and halfway through the next Laney Albright song when it cuts off mid-verse and a familiar voice says, “Hello, Vaughn. Nigel here. Have a minute for a chat?”
“Of course.” I stop at the perimeter of the waiting area for my gate, take a deep breath to steady my nerves, and swipe my damp palm along the leg of my jeans.
“You sound like you’re North Bank Lower at Emirates, with Arsenal closing on the goal.”
“Sorry.” I press the phone to my ear. “I’m at the airport, about to get on a flight.”
“Ah, well, there you go. I’ll keep this short. Vaughn, fancy being the new host of America Rocks?”
I close my eyes for a moment and do a mental lap around the terminal, shouting and high-fiving everyone in sight. “Yes. Sure. I would absolutely fancy that.”
“Brilliant. We’re of a mind then. The casting team, the judges, the test audiences—hell everyone you auditioned for, including John and myself—unanimously agree you’re the right fellow to welcome America back to its favorite show.”
“I’m …” Honored? Grateful? Stoked beyond words? “I appreciate this opportunity, Nigel. I won’t let the show down.”
“Not a worry. We talked with a lot of people in the course of making our decision, and everyone called you hardworking, easygoing, and a total professional. You’ve got your ego in check and your head on straight. The term ‘hawt AF’ came up a bit as well,” he adds, managing a decent twang. “Whatever that means. Nobody will explain it to this crusty old codger.”
A laugh escapes me. Even though I suspect he’s joking, I duck the explanation. “I think it means my ego just got out of check.”