She freezes, still gripping my shirt, eyes wide with panic. I turn my head to the side and lean forward. Her lips connect with my cheek.
“Oh!” She tries to turn away, but she really is stuck, so her nose ends up in my ear and her lips are still pressed against my jaw.
“Just give me a few more seconds, and you’ll be free.” She exhales heavily against my jaw, warm breath making my skin prickle. I lift her carry-on and use my foot to pull the scarf free from the wheel.
She loosens the fabric around her throat, dragging in a long, deep breath. “Thank you. So much. Choking to death on an attractive man’s lap really isn’t the way I wanted to go.” She squeezes her eyes shut and pushes to a stand. “I’m so sorry.”
She keeps her gaze averted as she gathers up the scarf that never seems to end. It gives me time to check her out. Well, shit. This woman is hot. Like pour a gallon of gasoline on me and light me on fire hot. She has long dark hair, a shade of brown so deep it’s nearly black. Her eyes are the color of coffee or chocolate—something with caffeine in it. Something that would amp me up. And her face . . . daaaaamn. High cheekbones, full lips, a dainty nose, arched brows, thick lashes.
I take in the rest of the package, which gives me pause because her outfit is just . . . out there. She’s wearing a full-on parka, hiding her figure, but based on her legs I’m thinking she’s probably slender. That’s a guess, though, with all the layers she has going on. And that scarf has to be a mile long with how many times she winds it around her neck, hence the near strangulation.
Her little wardrobe malfunction has resulted in a line of people waiting to board, so she rushes down the aisle, throwing another “So sorry” over her shoulder as she disappears into coach.
I’m almost disappointed. Almost, but not quite. I plug my earbuds back in and veg out to movies for the next three hours.
Once I land in Anchorage, I call my brother. He’s meeting me here so we can get on the putt-putt plane to Kodiak Island. It’s been a family ritual since I was a teenager. Even though our dad died two years ago, Kyle and I still carry on this tradition where we spend a few weeks fishing in Alaska. It is my favorite part of off-season and the thing I look forward to the most every year, even without my dad.
“RJ, hey, bro, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours.” He sounds off—worried, maybe.
“I didn’t bother connecting to Wi-Fi on the plane. Where are you? Is everything okay?”
“It’s Joy.” He coughs, like he’s trying to hold back emotions.
I drop into the closest chair. “Is she okay?” Joy is his pregnant wife. I’m aware that there’s no way Kyle is coming with me for three weeks to hang out in Alaska next year. Not with a new kid. He might get a long weekend, but this is the last trip we’re supposed to take together for a few years, especially if one kid leads to more.
“She’s been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The doctors have put her on bed rest.”
That explains the waver in his voice. I sit up straighter, a tight feeling in the pit of my stomach, since we lost our dad to complications from diabetes. “What does that mean? Is she going to be okay? Is the baby all right?”
“It’s fine. She’s fine. The baby’s fine.” He sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself, not me. “She just needs to be monitored. The doctor said it’s not uncommon. It’s not like what Dad had—it’s a lot different.”
I relax a little. “Okay, that’s good. Do you want me to come to LA?”
“No. You don’t need to do that. We’re okay. Mom and Stevie are talking about bringing Stevie’s stuff out here now instead of later in the summer.” Our younger sister is working on her master’s and decided out west is where she wanted to be, away from the cold winters.
“Mom and Stevie are coming? Are you sure I shouldn’t too?”
“Positive. You know how Mom is—as soon as she heard bed rest, she was already packing. It sounds a lot more serious than it is, but I can’t come to Alaska. I don’t want to leave Joy right now, and being that far from her really isn’t an option. I’m sorry, RJ, I know how much you were looking forward to this.” He sounds torn, which I don’t want, not when Joy is experiencing complications.
I conceal my disappointment. “You don’t have to apologize. I get it. Joy and the baby are priority number one.”