Headed for Trouble - By Suzanne Brockmann Page 0,83

and stepped up their pace, hustling away.

It was almost funny.

But Emma started to cry.

And Sam turned away. He had to. He was a sympathy vomiter—puking people were his kryptonite—and his last few badly cooked and too-greasy meals were flashing before his eyes. That cheeseburger, those onion rings … Holy fuck, this was going to be bad.

But Robin knew Sam pretty damn well. “Let’s get the kids more mobile so I can go help Gina,” he said, morphing smoothly from outraged drama queen to calm, efficient team leader, as he handed Mikey off to Sam. “You focus on getting the luggage and some hotel recommendations from Mr. Mumbles.”

It was a good idea—at least the part in which Robin played nurse and Sam avoided playing nurse. He burped and tasted fish and chips. “We should stay here, in the airport,” Sam started to say, refreshing his grip on both babies.

“That’s not an option, Sam,” Robin said flatly as he expertly unfolded Gina’s double stroller. “Not anymore.”

This was going to be noisy. Ash was still in that cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat place, and Mikey was in full-on pre-wail, having been passed from his mom to Robin to Sam, his mouth in that telltale infinity symbol shape of doom. Putting the boys into the stroller was going to detonate both of them. Guaranteed. But it would free up Sam’s hands, and he was going to need his hands while Robin’s were full of Gina.

“Have you seen those public bathrooms?” Robin continued. “Forget about the fact that there are probably laws forbidding men going into the ladies’ room, I am not letting Gina near that toilet. We need two rooms with two private bathrooms, preferably bed bug free but even that is negotiable at this point.”

Sam had to ask, “Is Gina …?” Pregnant again? He didn’t say it, but Robin understood.

He made an I honestly don’t know face as he helped Sam secure both Mikey and Ash with the stroller’s seat belts.

“Please God, don’t let it be the flu,” Sam muttered, and Robin actually laughed.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be great,” he said then raised his voice. “Emma, come here, pumpkin-girl. We’re gonna need you to push the scream-team in a big circle, around and around and around our luggage. Can you do that for me, buddy? So I can help your mommy with her tummy ache?”

Emma nodded, still sniffling. “My tummy hurts, too.”

“I know, baby,” Robin said soothingly. “We’re all tired and hungry and a little bit cranky. So why don’t you just rock ’em instead. Just back and forth, like this. Okay? And maybe you could sing them that song I taught you, remember …?”

“We’ll need our luggage,” Sam told the man behind the counter, raising his voice to be heard over Mike’s and Ash’s indignation, which was—hallelujah—fading a bit with Emma’s help.

The little girl was singing, “All the single ladies, all the single ladies …” and Sam turned to give Robin a really? look, but Robin was busy tying back Gina’s long, dark hair.

Sam swiftly turned back to the counterman. “And the names and numbers of the nearest hotels.”

“May I see your luggage tags, sir?”

Sam found his boarding pass and held it out so the man could see the sticker with the info about his checked bags.

The World Airlines rep’s fingers clicked on the keyboard, and then he made a sound that Sam didn’t want to hear.

It was an oh, and it was not a happy oh. It was, for sure, a bad news oh.

But the man tried to spin it. “It seems your luggage is still in London, sir. But that’s good, since you’re now going to London …?”

God damn it. Sam resisted the urge to put his head down on the counter. But there was one last option they hadn’t checked. “Can you look to see if there’s any other airline, with enough seats for all of us, flying out of Tarafashir tonight, preferably to Athens or London, but we’re open to other possiblities …?”

As the keyboard again clicked, Sam took out his phone and fired off a quick text to Alyssa, updating her as to their snafu.

But then Mikey and Ash’s chorus of woe kicked up a notch, and Sam looked over, just in time to see that Emma had stopped singing and rocking them. She stood there, silently staring at him, doing her mini-Max imitation.

And then she puked. She didn’t lean over, she didn’t otherwise move. She just opened her mouth and out it came, a volcano of nastiness—down her tiny shirt and