full cup of cola on Jeffrey’s tray. It lasted six minutes, until he dropped his crayons and dove to grab them, knocking the cup directly into my lap, onto my pristine white skirt.
I gasped in dismay as the ice-cold liquid seeped through the fabric. I couldn’t even jump up because the guy next to me was asleep and snoring, his meaty arm blocking me in.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. Jeffrey get back up in your seat! Look what you did to that poor woman! Apologize to her! No, give me those crayons; you sit quietly in your seat. Steven, hush, you’re fine. No, you cannot have more pop. Jeffrey, sit down; you’re supposed to have your seat belt on. No, I don’t have more batteries. Share with your brother.” And so it went. Jeffrey began haranguing his mom for more cola—which I vowed to dump on the little shit’s head if she gave it to him—while Steven fussed and whined.
I hit the call button and the flight attendant looked sympathetic as she brought me a pile of napkins, but there was nothing to be done. The liquid had soaked into my skirt, right through to my underwear and crotch until I knew I’d be sporting a brownish wet spot on the back of my skirt as well as the front. Frustrated tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back.
I really hated kids.
The flight attendant returned and handed me a drink. I glanced up, questioning. I hadn’t ordered anything.
“Vodka tonic,” she said quietly, glancing at Jeffrey. “Complimentary.”
“Thank you,” I murmured as she walked away. It was five o’clock somewhere, I thought as I downed the drink.
Jeffrey finally fell asleep as we were on our approach to land, the little shit. As I deplaned, I glanced at the mom, feeling a pang of sympathy for her as she roused Jeffrey and took Steven by the hand. She looked exhausted.
My skirt was as wet as I thought it’d be, the stain nice and prominent. Lovely. If possible, I was in an even worse mood now than I had been earlier. When I saw Parker’s eyebrows lift as I joined him by the baggage carousel, his gaze on my skirt, I snapped, “Don’t even say it.”
“What happened?” he asked, ignoring me.
“Jeffrey happened,” I said. “Spilled his pop all over me. Now I look like I wet my pants and he stained my skirt.” I wanted to cry, but stuck with angry. No man wanted to bother with a woman crying over a spilled pop.
Parker shrugged out of his suit jacket. “Here,” he said, swinging it over my shoulders. “Put this on.”
Surprised but grateful, I slid my arms into the too-long sleeves. He was right. The jacket was big enough and long enough on me to cover my soaked rear.
“I’ll get the bags,” he said, tugging the jacket closed around me, “if you need to find a ladies’ room.”
I lifted my gaze to his, mine a little watery. His kindness was sweet, making a lump form in my throat. I nodded. “Thanks,” I managed to say without bawling. “Mine has a hot pink luggage tag in the shape of a martini glass.” A favor from a bachelorette party.
In the nearest bathroom, I went in a stall and carefully hung Parker’s jacket on a hook before pulling off my cola-dampened underwear. Ick. I dropped them in the trash, then tried my best to get the stain out of my skirt, but all I was doing was making it worse. The dry cleaner might be able to get the stain out, but I couldn’t, at least not while in the airport bathroom.
Pulling Parker’s jacket back on, I realized the fabric was drenched in his scent. Not stopping to ask why I was doing it, I took a quick moment to press my nose into the lapel and take a deep whiff.
When I returned to Parker, he had our bags and stood next to a uniformed driver, chatting. His gaze raked me from head to toe, a funny look coming over his face that I couldn’t read.
“We’re just going to the hotel,” he said. “You can change there. Our clients e-mailed me with the time for dinner, so you have plenty of time.”
Sounded good to me.
But my luck didn’t change. When we got to the hotel and they pulled up the reservation, we found out the travel department hadn’t booked me a room like I’d told them to.
“I’m sorry, but we’re full tonight,” the desk clerk