Guy sneaks another look at me before heading to the baggage claim. I trudge forward to face the agent’s ridicule.
* * *
When I spot my blue backpack rolling down the baggage carrousel, I say a silent prayer of thanks. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.” I tap shoulders and bob my head as I try to breach the ring of bodies around the conveyer belt, my purse and backpack maiming at least one kid along the way. If I’d been thinking straight when I left, I would’ve packed lighter. Once through, I have to wait until my bag travels the full circle to avoid Hot Guy at the opposite end.
A big black suitcase mummified in duct tape is leaning on my bag by the time it reaches me. Grabbing one of the shoulder straps, I yank my pack, but my feet slip on the shiny floor and my purse drops to my forearm. Still holding the strap, I stumble along and give it a solid pull. I almost land on my (pantyless) behind but manage to right myself, then I drag my pack to the nearest pillar.
Planting my hands on my hips, I study my bag, losing focus as I stare at the blue nylon and black stitching. With each passing second, I grip my hips tighter to calm my shaking arms. The lights seem brighter, the people around me moving faster, and I become acutely aware of how alone I am. I’ve traveled plenty with my family, but never in my life have I done something this insane. But this is me, clearly nuts. So unless I want to fly another thousand hours back home and return to a university where people know what a mess I am, to take classes I don’t even care about—my “general” BA is nothing but a lame attempt at future goals—I better start dealing.
I inhale until my lungs hurt and release my breath in a steady stream. Okay. I’m here. In New Zealand. NEW. ZEALAND. I made it in one piece, minus a tiny piece of clothing. I have my luggage. Now what?
“Hey,” I hear from behind me. “Need a hand with your bag?”
That low voice hits me in my belly. Hot Guy.
A large yellow pack lands beside mine, a Canadian flag loosely stitched on the top. Crap. I don’t have a flag on my bag. That’s like rule number one as a traveling Canadian. I trace the red maple leaf longingly, half of it barely stuck to the pack.
Warm breath hits my ear. “I can rip it off for you, if you want.”
Rip it off?
I whip around, half expecting the lights to dim and Pitbull to blare from the speakers as Hot Guy rolls his hips and tears his pants à la Magic Mike. With much difficulty, I detach my stare from the bulge in his jeans.
His lip does that sexy, curling thing as he stifles a laugh. “The flag, I mean. You can have it.” His eyes wander to my skirt.
“No, no. It’s just…I should’ve sewn one on before I left. I was rushing. I didn’t think of it.” In case Hot Guy has laser vision, I clasp my hands strategically over the pantyless portion of my lower half. Not that my goods haven’t been displayed.
He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “Whatever, I’m not even Canadian. The flag’s all yours.”
“But I saw you at the terminal in Toronto.”
Ignoring me, Hot Guy bends down and rips the poorly attached flag off his bag. He holds it out to me, smirking, waiting, until I grab its corner. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m Sam.” He extends a large, strong hand toward me.
One-syllable Sam. Perfect.
His smile broadens, his hand hovering midair, as he waits for me to respond like a well-adjusted human being. Such a person would clasp his hand and offer their name in return.
My five syllables are lodged in my throat.
Heat burns my cheeks, my saliva solidifies, and I proceed do the most absurd thing imaginable. Clutching the rough fabric of my newly acquired Canadian flag, I inch around the pillar my bag is perched against.
“You know I can still see you, right?” he says from the other side.
I hug my arms closer to my sides, wishing I had Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. I’m in New Zealand, standing on the other side of the world, and the one guy I can’t escape has already been privy to my propensity for large-scale embarrassment. This supposed fresh start is tanking fast.