Taken by Storm. HEATHER MACALLISTER
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fifteen minutes. He watched the overworked clerks. They had to be as tired and as frustrated as the passengers, but so far, they were doing an admirable job of hiding it. Still, if he got into line now, by the time he made it to the counter, his beer could be frozen.
He looked around for a cargo handler and noticed a black backpack sitting by the empty dog crate. Unattended luggage. Bad. Very bad, as the airport announcements warned. Over and over and over. But Ryka had abandoned it in her haste to get away from him. Yeah, he’d definitely come off as stalkerish. It would be his fault if someone stole the backpack or messed with it or reported it as unattended luggage. So Cam casually sat on the floor next to the crate. He’d keep an eye on the bag and leave when she returned.
He felt a disappointed pang at the thought of walking away from her, although he wouldn’t walk far because the baggage-service line wrapped around the pet area. He could catch a glimpse of her cute nose or sexy legs, but he had to make sure she didn’t catch him at it.
Cam rested his forearms on his knees, hands dangling free. A wave of tiredness smacked him and he dropped his head. He’d oh-so-carefully arranged this meeting with Richard after reading an interview in his college alumni magazine where Richard had expressed an interest in brewing craft beer. Fortunately, the Yakima Valley in Washington State was a huge hop-growing region, so Cam had mentioned he’d be in Washington visiting growers and offered to meet with Richard. When Richard had agreed, Cam then actually had to plan a visit with a grower; Richard was just the sort of man to verify his story. Richard was also the sort of man to refuse to meet with Cam if he was late, even if it was because of the storm of the century.
Cam drew a deep breath and lifted his head, his gaze falling on the backpack again. A tiny edge of white paper taunted him from beneath the bag. The paper looked a whole lot like one of the temporary ID strips the airlines provided at the ticketing counter. If Gus were here, he’d move the backpack so he could read the information on it, but Cam wasn’t Gus. Besides, if Ryka saw him messing with her bag, he’d have a hard time explaining his motives to her—or to whoever monitored all the security cameras trained on the area.
He’d have a hard time explaining it to himself. What did it matter who she was and where she lived?
Deliberately, Cam sought out the door where owners were being reunited with their pets and vowed to talk with one of the workers as soon as Ryka returned. It was while he watched the handler match a man’s ID to a tag on his pet’s crate that Cam thought to look at Casper’s crate.
And there it was, visible for anyone to see: Ryka Kennels, Leeland, Virginia. Virginia. Not close to Texas. A kennel wasn’t exactly a portable occupation, either. Neither was a brewery. And Ryka probably wasn’t her name.
So much for that. Not that there had been a “that.” Cam drew a deep, deep breath and exhaled in a whoosh, trying to blow away his disappointment. Just what, exactly, had he hoped would happen, anyway? After they went their separate ways, was he going to get in touch with her and say, “Hey, I’m that guy you thought was going to hit on you at the airport. You want to go out some night?” And then if she actually said okay, he’d have to fly to Virginia.
Not happening. Getting MacNeil’s up and running consumed all his time and energy. The family had agreed that Cam’s brothers and cousins would put up the money for the brewery and help out when they could, but Cam would run the show. So right now, the brewery had to come first in his life. When Cam started a new relationship, he was very up front about his responsibilities. Women always said they understood, but after a few weeks, when the novelty of spending Saturdays at the brewery wore off, they lost patience. Cam didn’t blame them; they deserved more than he could give.
The brewery needed more than he could give, too, and convincing the family of that was one of the major reasons for this trip. If he succeeded, then maybe he would have time to fly to Virginia.
The minutes crawled by. The arrival and departure screens flashed a notice stating that O’Hare was closed until further notice. Not good. Televisions were tuned to The Weather Channel or news stations discussing the weather. Maps showed the middle of the country as a blob of white and blue with fringes of purple. Roads were closed. Transportation was at a standstill. He watched lots and lots of footage of stalled cars buried in snow and icy branches that had fallen on power lines.
Great. Just great. Cam got out his phone and texted Richard that his flight had been delayed due to weather. This probably wasn’t news to Richard, but Cam had to give him some explanation for being late.
For the next few minutes, he checked his phone, hoping that Richard would text back right away. At some point, he became aware that the background noise had changed. He raised his head, trying to figure out what was different, and noticed people were starting to line the glass of the exit vestibule that buffered the outer doors. Beyond them, where he should have spotted taxis and shuttles picking up passengers, was a wall of white.
Just as he realized he was seeing snow, and a lot of it, and that Ryka and her dog were out in that mess, people backed away from the entrance. Ryka and the dog and a bunch of snow blew in through the automatic doors.
She stomped her feet and the dog shook himself. They continued through the next set of doors into the main area where she stopped to wipe more snow from the dog. Her funny candy-cane hood fell back and she jerked it and the scarf off impatiently and shook them. Then she used them to brush snow off her coat as Casper plopped down and tried to chew off his booties. Ryka saw what he was doing and removed them—without trouble this time. She stared at the mess in her hands and Cam smiled at the face she made before stuffing the booties into her pocket along with her mittens. She jostled her scarf once more and reached behind her neck to free her hair.
Glossy brown waves cascaded down her back as she raked her hair away from her face with her fingers and fluffed her bangs, which were hopelessly crinkled from being squashed beneath her hat.
The scene was like a commercial. It only lacked slow-motion camera effects.
She said something to the dog and tugged at the leash. Looking skyward, she shook her head, straightened and spoke a command. The dog immediately got to his feet and positioned himself at her side. Together, they jogged toward Cam and the crate in that peculiar trot used at dog shows.
Cam didn’t need TV special effects. He saw them in slow motion. Ryka, her cheeks flushed and hair swinging, a dog in a goofy outfit trotting beside her...and a soundtrack. A voice from on high chanting, “If you claim her, do not leave her unattended. Keep her in your possession at all times and do not allow strangers to give her anything to carry.” And to make sure he got the message, the voice chanted it in a couple of different languages.
He got the message, all right. His heart pounded and his man juices bubbled, just the way Gus said they would.
And then she noticed him sitting there and her step faltered. The wary expression on her face stabbed him in the chest; he’d blown any chance of spending more time with her.
Cam got to his feet so quickly, he became lightheaded. He forced a smile and mouthed, “You left your backpack” to her as he pointed. Understanding wiped the wariness from her face, but Cam wasn’t going to push it. He raised a hand in farewell and walked blindly in the opposite direction.
“Oh, hey!” he heard but didn’t turn around. He could have imagined it, and anyway, he didn’t want her to think he was paying attention to her.
But he slowed. A little. Just in case.
Seconds later, he heard her say, “Excuse me,” and felt her hand on his arm. He was sure it was her hand because at the touch, his skin burned beneath the leather jacket...and beneath the navy cashmere pullover his mom had given him for Christmas and beneath the shirt he wore under that. Yeah. He reacted that strongly to her touch.
Gus’s words echoed in his mind, One day, you see a female and you blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year. It’s why men make poor decisions with the wrong women, or they let the right one get away ’cause they’ve got no finesse and scare her off.
Cam turned then and gave her a questioning look. Finesse.