Fireside. Сьюзен Виггс
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smile in place. Sometimes they played hard to get to make sure he meant business. “Rough night?”
A small, tight smile curved her very pretty mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but clearly you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” She spoke with a precise, prep-school diction he found sexy. “Someone who has the slightest bit of interest in talking to you.” With that, she turned and left, the torn seam of her dress offering him a glimpse of long, slender leg.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, staring at her ass as she walked away.
Strike one, he thought. It was for the best, anyway. He wasn’t here for flirting. He had a busy day ahead of him.
After the redhead disappeared at the end of the concourse, he was forced to deal with the reality of being here. He paced back and forth, eyeing the gate like a gladiator awaiting an onslaught of hungry lions. The thick gray door was still firmly closed. He’d already annoyed the gate agent by flashing his security pass and asking four different times when the flight would arrive.
He glanced at the clock. Still twenty minutes to go.
The busy bar was crammed with people, sipping coffee or bloody Marys while talking on cell phones, checking their email or reading the paper. Damn. Didn’t anyone just sit around and drink anymore? When did people decide that it was necessary to be busy all the time, even when you were sitting there, nursing a cold one?
Bo’s mouth watered at the idea of a tall beer, crisp and cold from the tap. Hell, there was time. He could just grab a quick one and be back to the gate in a few minutes.
He watched a line of people boarding a flight to Fort Lauderdale and felt a twinge of envy. Yeah, Fort Lauderdale would be good right about now. Without even thinking about it, he ambled toward the bar at an unhurried gait. Hell, fifteen minutes was more than enough time to scull a beer. A morning eye-opener. He’d just park himself at the bar opposite the cash register. That was where to stand to get the best service. His many years as a bartender had taught him that. Every time the bartender went to the register, he’d see the customer’s face in the mirror. A guarantee of faster service. He’d just step up to the bar and—
“Taylor Jane Purvis, you come back here!” shouted an angry voice.
A very small, laughing dynamo whirled past Bo, heading for the moving sidewalk that had nearly swallowed the redhead. The dynamo was a little girl with a mop of yellow ringlets. She had outmaneuvered her mother, who was burdened with about nine pieces of luggage. The little kid jumped on the sidewalk and ran. With the added speed of the moving walkway, she easily outpaced her harried mother. The woman looked as if she was about to lose it.
Bo hesitated, thinking about the redhead. He’d already been accused of being a perv once today. But the kid was getting farther away from her mother. He left his spot at the bar and strode to the moving walkway, easily catching up with the little kid. He reached over the side and plucked the child from the stream of pedestrians like a carnival prize. The startled kid’s feet kept pedaling away.
“Are you Taylor Jane?” he asked, holding her up at eye level.
Dumbfounded, she nodded.
“Well, your mama is looking for you,” he said.
The girl got over her surprise. She let out a scream, and kicked him in a vulnerable area.
Bo taught the kid a new vocabulary word as he set her down and backed away, palms out, regarding her like a stick of dynamite.
The girl’s mother rushed forward and snatched her hand. “Taylor Jane!” she said, then turned to Bo, her eyes filled with terror. “You stay away from my child, or I’ll call security.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He didn’t bother explaining that he’d only been trying to help. He just wanted to get the hell away from Taylor Jane. He’d never been good with kids, anyway.
Strike two. The little incident ended up costing him that beer. A flight had let out, and the bar was now three deep with thirsty customers.
He returned to Gate 22-C just as the uniformed agent was opening the security door. Redcaps were lining up with wheelchairs and electric carts. Bo felt himself tense up, and all his senses sprang to awareness with the kind of hypervigilance he felt when he pitched in a ball game. Every detail came into sharp focus—a guy striding past, a guitar case lightly bumping his back. The bright clack of a woman’s high heels on the gleaming floor. The scent of pot smoke wafting incongruously from the overcoat of a passing businessman. The staccato cadence of two skycaps’ conversation in Spanish. Everything bombarded him in that moment, and a burst of adrenaline gave him one final warning.
Escape was still an option here. There was still time to walk away, to disappear. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done something like that.
He scanned the gates, noting flights bound for Raleigh/Durham, Nashville, Oklahoma City … The flight to New Orleans was boarding, the sign flashing Final Call. One quick transaction and he could buy a seat. Go, he urged himself. Do it now. No one would blame him, surely. Any guy in his right mind would leave things up to people who were equipped to deal with the situation.
He approached the counter with the flight to New Orleans. The gate agent, a heavyset iron-haired guy hacking away at a keyboard, looked up. “May I help you?”
Bo cleared his throat. “Are there any seats left on this flight?”
The agent nodded. “Always room for more in the Big Easy.”
Bo grabbed the wallet from his back pocket. As he flipped it open, an old receipt and a coin fell out. He stooped and picked up the coin. It was ancient, embossed with a triangle symbol. It was a token they gave out at those meetings held in church basements, when you swore you’d stayed sober a whole year. It sure as hell hadn’t been earned by Bo. Who wanted to go a whole freaking year without a drink? Certainly not him. It was hard enough lasting an entire baseball season. He kept the coin because it was old, because it came from a time, a place and a person he didn’t know, but to whom he was intimately connected.
“Sir?” the gate agent prompted. “Is there something you need?”
Bo studied the coin in his hand. Service, unity, recovery. “Guess not,” he said quietly, and his fingers closed into a fist around the token. He started walking back to Gate 22-C. A waiting skycap held a radio, which crackled as he fiddled with the tuner.
In his head, Bo heard the distant roar of a crowd, sounding like the ocean through the whorls of a seashell held to his ear. An announcement blared over the stadium’s PA system—Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a sellout crowd tonight at Yankee Stadium. And here’s our starting pitcher for the home team, stepping up to the mound. This has to be the toughest and most triumphant walk of his career, folks. I would think, at this moment, that mound is the loneliest place on earth. He’s one and one to Tony Valducci. Now he’s ready: fastball, high, ball two. You can’t blame the guy for pushing it, with so much at stake. An All-American out of Texas City, Crutcher was considered to be an early-round draft pick straight out of high school … but the draft came and went. It took another thirteen years and a mother lode of luck, but here he is at last. He’s proof positive that sometimes, age is just a number. It is his time to shine …
Bo nearly bumped into the skycap. He shook off the fantasy and focused on the gate. Passengers from the Houston flight were coming through the door in a steady stream—businesspeople were already talking on their cell phones, couples and lone travelers were heading toward the baggage claim, exhausted-looking parents emerged with cranky, tousle-headed kids. The emptying of the plane seemed to take forever.
So long that Bo began to have his doubts. Had he written down the flight number correctly? Was he completely wrong about the time, the airline, the day? Was this some freakish, horrible mistake?
He was about to approach the gate agent when an elderly couple shuffled off the plane. Skycaps helped them to an electric cart. Finally, a flight attendant with wispy hair and weary eyes emerged from the Jetway with someone behind her. The attendant