She nodded. Paige set her on her feet and rifled through her backpack for wet wipes, most everything in the distance a blur, but retrieving her glasses would have to wait. She swiped around the tiny pink mouth.
Kirstie hiccupped. "How do you know it's not malaria?"
"You don't have a fever." She smoothed a second wipe over her daughter's cool forehead then along her hands.
"But I feel hot, really hot. How do you know for sure?"
"I'm the mama." She wadded up the wipes and pitched them in the trash—aw, hell, where her glasses were. "I know everything."
What a joke.
"But you said yesterday you don't know how one kid can go through five outfits in a day.
So see? You might not know this, neither," she whispered. "I'm gonna hafta go to the doctor."
Patience, she reminded herself. As difficult as this was for her, it was worse for Kirstie.
"I'll take your temperature when we get home. I promise."
Hiccup. "'Kay."
A lanky shadow stretched over them. Bo. Heat prickled up her neck until she longed to soothe a wet wipe over her skin, too.
"Wanna pass me one of those for my boots?"
She winced and gave him the whole travel container. "Oh, sure. I'm so sorry about this."
"No problem." He knelt, swiping a clean sheen back to black leather. "It wasn't like she could help it. And this isn't the first time my boots have been thrown up on."
"You're only saying that to make me feel better."
"No way." He stood, tall, taller still until his shadow engulfed her. "I was in Guam a couple of years ago, and we had this great luau that left one of the flyers green the next morning."
Kirstie looked up from Paige's leg. "Did he have malaria?"
"No, Cupcake." He chucked her chin. "Bad swordfish."
Bo leaned past into the trash can, presenting a blurry-but-dog-gone-well-clear-enough image of long legs, lean h*ps and a perfect butt. Must be the flight suit. It had to be the flight suit making him so appealing. Surely he wouldn't look as incredible out of it.
Out of the flight suit? Now there was an image she did not need, since visions in her head were crystal clear.
He straightened, her shattered glasses dangling from between his fingers. "I hope you have a spare set with you.">The moonwalk entrance flapped open and kids began pouring out. Paige shot from the bench, not even bothering to hide her haste. "My brother can bring her to see the flights tomorrow. I think Kirstie's had enough excitement for one day."
"You mean her mother has," he muttered.
Better to ignore him than launch into more dangerous-ground conversation.
"Kirstie," she called into the crowd of children retrieving their shoes. "It's time for us to go home. Kirstie?"
She searched the mass of kids, most of whom were wearing oversize white Thunderbird T-shirts, doggone it. Her stomach tightened with the first hints of apprehension. "Bo? Do you see her?"
"She's here. There's no other way out. Just stay calm. Kirstie?"
"Kirstie Adella Haugen." Paige rolled out her best maternal-mad tone, betrayed by a shaky quiver.
The last of the children dispersed, the storage cubbies holding only a lone pair of Strawberry Shortcake shoes, specialty laces sporting little green Ks,
Chapter 3