the entire airport to counsel someone on devastating life events. Thank Christ, she didn’t say much as they wove their way through the security line.
They handed their tickets to the TSA agent and were funneled into a screening line when she gripped his arm and pointed to a woman ahead of them.
“Why is that lady taking off her jacket?” she asked, panic lacing her words.
He glanced down at her. “TSA rules. Coats and bulky clothing can set off the scanner.”
She pulled the trench tighter around her chest. “I can’t take off this coat!”
“Why not?”
She waved him down. “I’m only wearing lingerie underneath it.”
Now that was a damn surprise. He reared back, and his face must have registered his amazement because his crazy line lady gasped.
She pressed her hands to her hips and frowned. “Do I not seem like the type of woman to do that? Do I not strike you as someone who is sexually adventurous?”
Holy hell! This was getting into some dangerous territory, and he didn’t even know this woman’s name.
“Honestly?” he sputtered.
With fire in her eyes, she cocked her head to the side. “Yes, honestly!”
“No, you seem like the exact opposite of that kind of woman. You seem more like a leggings and a baggy sweater kind of person. The lingerie under a trench is a nice move—don’t get me wrong—but one best done on a private plane without the possibility of going through a pat-down.”
She covered her face with her hands. “What are we going to do?”
We?
How had they become a we in less than fifteen minutes?
He glanced at the agents. “We’ll play it cool. I travel a decent amount, and I recognize one of the guys working. Let me try to talk to him.”
Relief softened her expression, and she smiled so sweetly that he nearly bent down and kissed her plump lips.
“Ma’am, you need to remove your jacket to go through the scanner.”
Their moment disintegrated at the sound of the TSA agent’s voice, and his crazy line lady stiffened.
“I can’t. This isn’t a jacket. It’s…a dress.”
“It looks like a jacket,” the agent shot back.
“Nope, it’s a dress,” she repeated nervously.
“Hey, Benny,” he said, extending his hand and praying his crazy line lady came off as someone uneasy about flying instead of a complete nutcase.
The agent’s annoyed demeanor dialed down a notch as they shook hands. “Jake Teller, how are you doing, man?”
“Your name is Jake?” his crazy line lady exclaimed, gripping the sleeve of his suit and staring at him like she was…well, pretty damn crazy.
“You know this lady, Jake?” the agent asked.
Jake leaned in toward her like he was going to kiss her but stopped a breath short of his lips touching her earlobe. “Air travel 101: Don’t act crazy,” he whispered.
She gave a minute nod and tightened her grip on his arm.
He slapped on his slickest smile. “Yeah, we’re together. This is a game we play, right?”
His crazy line lady nodded. “Yeah, I date a lot of Jakes, so it’s an inside joke between us, right…Jake?”
The agent eyed her skeptically. “How many Jakes have you dated in your life, lady?”
Jake was thinking the same damn thing.
“Counting him?” she asked, dead serious.
“Yeah, counting him,” the agent answered with a hint of amusement, which was damn better than suspicion when interacting with a government security official.
She glanced up, her thumb making tiny nervous circles against his skin. “Well…he’s number seven,” she answered, holding his gaze as a strange déjà vu vibe seemed to pass between them.
“Lucky number seven,” the agent laughed, interrupting their peculiar moment.
“All right. You can go through in your dress,” the man said, waving her into the scanner’s chamber.
Jake set their bags on the conveyer belt and followed her. Thank God she didn’t have an Uzi or a ten-gallon jug of bleach in her heavy as fuck carry-on. They picked up their items, and he was ready to part ways when her hand was back on his forearm.
“Let me buy you a drink or a snack or something to thank you for your help. You’ve been the brightest part to literally one of the worst days of my life,” she said with that damn sweet smile.
He stared at her. He hadn’t really looked at her yet.
“Did you cut yourself? You’ve got a red mark on your cheek,” he asked.
Her hand flew to her face. “It’s probably a little paint. I am…I mean, I was an elementary school art teacher.”
She’d brushed at her cheek but missed the spot. Without thinking, he stroked his thumb