Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Read online

  I snort. “Because having someone’s hands all over you is somehow less invasive?”

  “I’m fine with someone professionally touching the outside of my clothes,” he says. “I’m not fine with someone checking me out naked because the government tells them it’s okay.”

  I shove my right heel into my shoe and stand up to jam it in a little better, bracing myself on a nearby window ledge. Outside it’s sunny and these Californian skies are baby blue and cloudless. It’s hard to imagine there’s a snowpocalypse sweeping the northeast as we speak.

  “Good to know,” I say with a mild smile, politely pretending to be appreciative of his second round of unsolicited advice. I could give a rat’s ass if someone sees me naked. I’ve modeled nude in enough art classes that taking off my clothes is a bit of a pastime at this point.

  Glancing at my phone, I realize I’m boarding in fifteen minutes, and I still need to grab a book and some coffee for the plane.

  “Have a good flight.” I sling my purse over my shoulder and trek toward the coffee cart halfway down Terminal A. Perusing the menu, I decide on a half-caf soy latte with cinnamon and sugar-free vanilla syrup because just thinking about the snowflakes I’ll be feeling on my face in a mere five hours and some change makes me crave something warm and comforting in my belly.

  I place my order and slip the cashier a five-dollar bill and exact change.

  “Thank you,” I say to the cashier, re-adjusting my purse strap on my shoulder and tightening my grip on the coffee. The paper cup is comfortably warm in my palm, and I can already practically taste the rich, bold flavor on my tongue.

  Turning on my heels, I find myself face to face with him again. He’s right up on me. His deliciously clean scent invades my airspace, and I could probably calculate the distance between our faces in mere inches. But the sheer unexpectedness of his proximity to me causes me to stop hard in my tracks, which then proceeds to cause the scalding coffee in my cup to splash up over the lid, dribbling molten brown liquid all over my shoes.

  “Wonderful,” I sigh, lifting my cup and moving out of the way.

  His hand reaches for me, gently gripping my forearm. “I’m so sorry.”

  He sounds genuine. This time. It’s not like earlier, when he was “apologizing” for staring at me. This time his eyes are softer and his expression is void of any kind of ornery glint or smiling eyes.

  “I was looking at the menu. I didn’t mean to stand so close . . .” he says, exhaling.

  There’s a small stand to our left that holds straws and cream and sugar, and I watch him yank half a dozen paper napkins from a dispenser before lowering himself to my feet and dabs, pointlessly, in an attempt to salvage my Oxfords.

  “It’s okay,” I say. Even though it’s not.

  I know it was an accident.

  I know I should be gracious and giggle and pretend this is some kind of romantic comedy, but these shoes weren’t cheap.

  And they’re my favorites.

  And they’re ruined.

  And my others are currently sitting in my suitcase in the belly of my plane.

  And I’m going to have to smell stale, sticky coffee wafting off my shoes for the next five hours.

  I’m sure there’s a gift shop around here that sells flip-flips, but I’m not exactly heading into flip-flop friendly weather.

  “No,” he says, rising to a standing position and holding out his hand. He’s got height, this one. And his shoulders are so broad. Distractingly broad. And so round they fill out his clingy t-shirt. I try not to stare at the centered veins running down his biceps. There’s no good explanation as to why I’m focusing on these things right now, but I am. “It’s not okay. I’m so sorry. Take them off. I’ll go rinse them off in the bathroom.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, eyeing the terminal up ahead. “My flight’s boarding soon, I need to go.”

  “Which flight are you on?”

  “Five-twelve,” I say, brows scrunched because I’m not sure why it matters.

  “Me too.” He flashes a half-smile, and I momentarily lose myself in the golden flash of his irises because apparently I’m running low on self-control today.

  I bet this works for him.

  I bet this is his shtick.

  He messes up in life, flashes his pearly, dimpled smile, winks his honey-brown eyes, flexes his biceps, and all is right again. I bet he gets off the hook for everything because he’s obnoxiously good-looking and knows how to charm his way out of any situation.

  Too bad for him, I don’t have time for this.

  “Do you ever shut it off?” I ask.

  His expression fades into confusion. “Um, what?”

  “This,” I say, waving my hand up and down his length.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, eyes searching mine.

  Groaning, I feel the burn of word vomit as it rises from my core. I’m not sure if it’s the holiday travelers, the packed airport, the fact that I’m running late, or the fear of not getting home in time to be with my sister, but I couldn’t be in a worse mood than I am right now and this guy has the audacity to try and be all cute and charismatic?

  “The smile,” I say. “The eyes. The staring. The following me around and trying to be all charming and helpful. You think I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know. But I’m trying to get home, and listen, I’m not going to buy whatever it is you’re selling, so please, leave me alone.”

  I chuck what’s left of my spilt coffee into a nearby trash can and push past him.

  I swear I’m not normally this big of a bitch.

  I’m just having an off day.

  A really, really, really off day.

  The second I storm off, I instantly regret not being kinder to him . . .

  . . . especially when I remember we’re going to be on the same flight for the next five hours.

  Oops.

  Nothing I can do at this point but pray we’re in completely different sections of the aircraft.

  Gate C1 lies ahead, and I see the sign indicating we’ll be boarding soon. I find a seat next to a phone charging station and juice up while I have the chance.

  When a text from Delilah appears on my screen, asking if I made it to the airport okay, I quickly respond, letting her know I’ll see her in time for dinner. When I ask her how she’s feeling, she immediately replies that she feels like she could burst at any moment. Delilah’s not hyperbolic or dramatic. I know she’s not trying to be some cutesy, nine-month-pregnant lady. She could literally go into labor at any moment, and that does very little to quell the anxiety I’m feeling right now.

  Seats fill all around me, everyone sitting around with their noses buried in their phones. To my left, a mother rocks her baby, humming what sounds to me like Bad Romance by Lady Gaga, and I chuckle, because I would probably be doing the same thing. Screw Brahm’s Lullaby. Give me something with a real melody I can get down with.

  I’m not a baby person at all. I mean, I’ll love any and all nieces and nephews thrown my way, but as far as having a kid of my own, it’s never really been something I’ve fantasized about.

  Maybe one.

  Maybe when I’m pushing forty and that fertility window of opportunity is closing down on me and I’ve got some long-term boyfriend begging for me to carry his child before it’s too late and I feel that deep tug on my heartstrings when I see a pudgy faced kid smiling at me in line at the grocery store. Then and only then will I get knocked up. But until that time comes? I’m soaking up my freedom and independence because I’ve only got this one life.

  Checking my phone, I see my battery has gone up a whopping two percent since I’ve sat down. I note the time and feel a tiny leap in my chest when I realize we’re going to be boarding any minute now. I just want to hear the high-pitched whir of the jet engines and feel the G-force pressing my chest as we begin our ascension because that means I’ll be that much closer to my little bottle of airplane vodka.

  “Attention pas
sengers,” a muffled, muddled voice comes over the intercom a moment later. I glance up to see the lady behind the flight attendant’s desk at our gate holding the mouthpiece of a phone up to her moving lips. “Flight 512 with nonstop service from Seaview to JFK International Airport in New York City has been canceled. Please report to your nearest Jet Stream Airways desk or the counter at gate C1 for further information.”

  My jaw falls in tandem with the sinking of my heart in my chest.

  No . . .

  No, no, no, no, no.

  Chapter 2

  Daphne

  “I’m a passenger with Jet Stream Airways.” I slide my hotel voucher across the front desk at the Blue Star Hotel across from the airport, feeling like the pregnant Virgin Mary desperately trying to find an inn for the night. “They said you might have a room available.”

  I cross my fingers, and my toes, because the last three hotels I stopped by were at full occupancy being that it’s New Year’s Eve and one of their busiest days of the year. Seaview, California is one of those towns you could blink and miss, and because of that, their hotel situation is severely lacking.

  The front desk clerk tucks her dyed purple hair behind her ear before pushing her thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. She looks like one of those cool moms, the kind that let their kids get tattoos on their eighteenth birthday and probably competes in air guitar competitions nationally. Biting the corner of her pierced lip, she focuses on her computer monitor.

  “I’m sure going to try, doll,” she says, her voice not holding the amount of certainty I’d like to hear in this type of situation. “An hour ago we were full, but I think there may have been a recent cancellation.”

  Her long, electric-blue nails click against the keys and her expression lightens a moment later.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she says, exhaling. “The Diamond suite is available tonight.”

  “Suite?”

  “It’s all we have, unfortunately.” Her head tilts. “And it’s really nice. King bed. Mini bar. Jacuzzi. Your voucher will cover it.”

  “Let me stop you there,” I cut her off when I remember none of this is coming out of my pocket. “I’ll take it.”

  She smiles. “Sure thing. It won’t be ready for a little while, but feel free to wait in the lobby. We also have a bar down the left hall and past the pool.”

  I slide her my ID so she can grab my name and sign off on a few liability waivers. Gathering my bags, I wheel myself to a nearby chair in the lobby and retrieve my phone so I can update Delilah. I’m not looking forward to this call, but there’s nothing I can do at this point.

  “Hey,” Delilah answers her phone with apprehension in her voice. “Why are you calling? Why aren’t you on your plane?”

  “Have you looked outside lately?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. “It’s snowing, but that’s normal. It’s December in Rixton Falls.”

  “There’s apparently a huge snowstorm moving north. It’s right outside New York City right now. Don’t you ever watch the news?”

  Delilah exhales, and I picture her plopping into her favorite chair. “I try not to. Too depressing, and everything makes me cry right now.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re calling it one of the biggest snowstorms of the last decade,” I say.

  “Lovely.”

  “All flights headed east have been grounded. I was hoping maybe they’d divert us, you know? Like it’d be nice if they could maybe drop us off in, say, Colorado or Iowa or Ohio, but nope. I guess that’s not how this works.’

  “So what are you going to do?” she asks.

  “The airline put us in a hotel for tonight. They gave us some number to call first thing tomorrow for updates.”

  “Think you’ll be flying home tomorrow, then?”

  Sighing, I’m not sure how to break this to her gently. “Delilah, they’re calling for even more snow tomorrow. And more the day after tomorrow.”

  “So you probably won’t be coming home for a while.” She doesn’t ask, she only states, and her voice is flat. “Well, that really sucks.”

  Her words are broken, and from my end of the phone, I physically feel the disappointment in her tone, sinking and powerless. I know thousands of women have babies every single day, but it was important to Delilah that I be there with her. Since we were little girls, we always planned to be there for each other for any and all monumental experiences, and it doesn’t get more monumental than giving life to a tiny human being. And I’ll be the godmother to her child. This is a moment we’ll never get back so long as we live.

  “Listen,” I say. “I was thinking that maybe tomorrow, I’ll head to the nearest car rental place, and maybe I’ll just drive the rest of the way? I already did the math, and if I drive for thirteen hours a day for three straight days, I’ll be home by Saturday.”

  “Daph,” she says in a way that makes her sound exactly like our mother, Bliss. “You can’t drive thirteen hours a day for three straight days. You’ll fall asleep at the wheel. It’s not safe.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say. “I’ll stop each night and stay at a hotel. Get some good rest. Be on the road first thing in the morning. The way I figure is by the time I’m almost home, the storm will have passed and the roads will be plowed. It’ll be perfect timing. And who knows, maybe by the time I get to Chicago, flights will be back in service and I can hitch one home? I’d be home in, like, two hours.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “I’m not insane, I just really want to come home,” I say. “I hate being stranded. And I promised you I’d be there. Just please, please, please don’t go into labor before Saturday.”

  My sister laughs. “I’ll try.”

  “Okay, well, I’m going to grab a drink at the bar,” I say. “My suite isn’t ready yet.”

  “Ooh, a suite?” Delilah asks. “Does it have a Jacuzzi?”

  “Of course it has a Jacuzzi,” I say. “So you know what that means.”

  “What?”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve,” I say. “I’m going to raid my mini bar and go skinny dipping in my Jacuzzi and party like it’s 1999.”

  “We were third-graders in 1999,” she says. “Pretty sure we had a sleepover that New Year’s and you and Emma Lancaster got into a hair-pulling fight because you both wanted to play with the same Flower Shop Barbie.”

  “Those were the days.” I sigh. “Anyway, I’m letting you go. Just relax and take it easy so that baby’ll stay in a little longer.”

  “Let me know when you leave tomorrow. I want regular check-ins. Keep me posted. If you’re driving and you get tired, just pull off on the side of the road, but at a well-lit rest stop. Or find the nearest hotel. Don’t pick up any hitchhikers . . .”

  I hold the phone away from my ear as she rambles on. I have to let her do this. It’s how she is. Delilah is a grade A, first-class worrywart.

  “Got it,” I say, pressing the phone against my ear a moment later. “I won’t do any of those things. Promise.”

  “Love you. Drive safe,” Delilah says.

  “Love you too.” Hanging up, I gather my things and scan the perimeter for the hall that leads to the pool that leads to the bar, only my gaze stops halfway and lands on a familiar figure standing behind the check-in desk.

  His elbows rest on the ledge, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he blows out a frustrated breath.

  “Are you absolutely sure you’re booked? This is the fourth hotel I’ve been to in the last two hours.” His tone is curt and the woman with the purple hair stands paralyzed. “I called here twenty minutes ago and was told by your manager that you had a room.”

  “Yes and I’m sorry. That room has since been filled. Things have been a little hectic today. I hope you can understand that.”

  “He was supposed to reserve the Diamond suite for me,” he says. “I gave him my name and phone number and told him I was on my way.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The woman stares up at him through her
thick glasses, her expression pale and powerless. “These mix-ups happen from time to time, and I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Are there any other hotels in this area?” He drags his palm down the side of his cheek. “I’ve already checked the Windermere, the Harriett, and Gateway Plaza. They’re all full.”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. You’ll have to drive two hours to LA to find another. At least another decent one. I wouldn’t trust the ones in Rockport or Harper’s Bluff. Or Crawfordsville for that matter. They’re all owned by the same outfit and they’re not well managed. Or very clean. Or so I hear.”

  “I can’t go to LA,” he says through gritted teeth. “My flight, God-willing, will be leaving from here first thing in the morning.”

  Someone clearly hasn’t been checking the weather.

  “Excuse me, miss. Are you in line?” a little old lady asks, placing her wrinkled hand on my arm. It’s only then that I realize I’ve been standing here, gawking at the shit show happening a mere eight or nine feet ahead like it’s some kind of cheap entertainment.

  I guess I’m just slightly fascinated by the fact that Prince Charming was all half-smiles and dreamy eyes a few hours ago, and now he’s looking like he’s about to transform into the Incredible Hulk and smash this entire hotel lobby to bits.

  “No, I’m not. Sorry.” I step aside. “Go ahead.”

  The man turns around at the sound of my voice, his face twisted and eyes locking on mine. His expression is distorted now, all hard lines and shadowed edges. He reminds me of this hot-headed Italian boy I met a couple summers ago in Naples. I’d never admit this out loud to anyone, but his temper was oddly erotic for me in a way that I’ve still yet to understand.

  We hold eye contact in a second that feels sort of like forever, his face registering my familiarity in real time, and then he turns back to the lady with the purple hair.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” His fist clenches on the ledge of her desk. “Sleep on a park bench?”