I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for a person’s heart to sink and flip at the same time, but it turns out I’d have been wrong. I’m staring into those all-too-familiar gray-green eyes for at least a couple seconds before I realize I’m gaping, and I snap my mouth shut.
The guy I’ve technically assaulted knits his lightly tanned brow for an instant, and then those striking eyes brighten with recognition.
Forget crackers. This is crap all the way through.
“Ruby Walters,” he says with a slow grin that only emphasizes how handsome that face of his still is.
“Will Cassidy,” I return, groping for my dignity. Every inch of me is abruptly aware of the flyaway hairs careening from my shoulder-length blonde bob, the deep red blouse I only hastily tucked into the pale blue skirt it doesn’t quite match—the first items of clothing my hands fell on in my closet after I called the cab. Will, of course, looks totally pulled together other than the wet blotch on his sleeve: not a dark brown hair out of place, not a crease in his obviously tailored suit. And damn if he doesn’t fill it out even better than he would have five years ago at USC, the last time I saw him.
He’s got a real Henry Cavill vibe going on, though I know the guy doesn’t have half the dignity of Superman. Five years ago he trashed the close friendship we’d shared as if it had never meant a thing. Any other feelings I had for him died then too. If my body is flushed right now, it’s only because of my mad dash over here. I swear.
“You’re about to get run over,” Will remarks. The tour group is coming up fast. I hurry around the bend in the lane. Will turns, his gaze following my progress, as if he’s evaluating my walk—or checking me out.
“Sorry,” I say again, meaning the apology a little less than I did when I thought he was a stranger. “About the water.”
“You seem to be in a bit of a hurry,” he says dryly.
“My flight finishes boarding in ten minutes.” Hopefully I’ll be through Security and through with this conversation in five.
Will’s eyebrows arch. “Funny, so does mine. It must be fate.”
There’s got to be at least one other flight leaving at the same time. “I wouldn’t count on it,” I say as we shuffle forward with the moving line. “Unless you have business in Puerto Vallarta.”
“Not business,” he says, his grin widening. “Not exactly, anyway. A good friend of mine is getting married.”
Oh, no. No way. “Please tell me your friend isn’t named Trevor,” I say, but my heart has now sunk past my gut all the way to my knees.
Will pauses for a second, but even then he looks unruffled. Could the guy do me a favor and ruffle for once in his life?
“Either you’ve developed some sharp psychic abilities, or we’re going to the same wedding,” he says. “You’re friends with Brooke?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “She’s my best friend, who for some reason decided she need to leave the country to get married.” And there’s no way I’m relaxing this week now.
“Oh, I know the reason,” Will says. He pulls his keys out of his pocket, tosses them in the air and catches them, all nonchalant, and sets them in one of the plastic bins we’ve just come up on. “The hotel we’re staying at? My wedding present to them is free run of the resort.”
Damn. I can’t help blinking at him, remembering how much my one room set me back. “So Trevor must be a really, really good friend of yours.”
“I suppose,” Will says. “It wasn’t that much trouble. I own the place.”
I own the place. Replaying in my head, Will’s comment sounds even haughtier. I make a face at the beige back of the economy seat in front of me—the face I wish I could have made at Will. Right now he’s up there smirking to himself in first class. I know because a stewardess scampered over to escort him while leaving me to schlep my bulging carry-on tote down the narrow plane aisle on my lonesome.
It could be worse. He could have been seated next to me for the entire three-hour flight.
That thought would be a lot more reassuring if I didn’t know I’ll be spending a whole seven days in his presence at the other end. In his resort. Argh.
The plane is still sitting in the terminal. I take out my phone, and I hesitate. It’s probably against wedding decorum to vent at your best friend six days before she gets married, right?
But some scenarios must transcend etiquette. Anyway, this is Brooke’s fault, in a roundabout way.
On the plane, waiting for takeoff, I text her. And guess who I ran into on the way here?
She can’t be that busy, because I get a response almost instantly. Don’t leave me in suspense—who?
Will.
Even though she’s only got one word to respond to, this reply takes a minute longer. Wait, THAT Will? Jerky college Will? What was he doing?
I smile grimly. Getting on the same plane, to attend YOUR wedding.
Oh, hell, Ruby. I had no idea.
I know she didn’t. She would have warned me. But I came down to Cali for college and she went off to Columbia, so she wasn’t exactly around to meet my nemesis. I can’t remember if I ever mentioned his last name. There aren’t a shortage of Wills in the world.
I’ll put on my big girl pants and make the best of it, just for you. But you’re now getting TWO Star Trek quotes in my toast instead of the previously negotiated one.
Nerd, she shoots back immediately.
I wear the title as a badge of honor, I answer, smiling for real now.
When I glance up, a stewardess is heading down the aisle, her gaze fixed on me. “Just putting it away,” I say quickly, and hold up the phone as I tap it into airplane mode.
“Oh,” she says, looking flustered. “No—I mean, good, but— Someone in first class asked me to give this to you.”
She hands me a folded piece of paper. At the words first class, I’ve already tensed. I unfold the note, glowering for a moment at the Courtly Executive Properties letterhead before I read the tight scrawl beneath.
It’s a little sparse up here today. There’s a perfectly good, very comfortable seat next to me desperate for someone to sit in it. Looks like Fate is getting pushy, so how about keeping me company? All drinks on me.
-W
I read the note three times and then a fourth, and still can’t summon the resolve I want. I should jot down a snarky refusal, send it back to him, and let him be the rejectee for once. Maybe simply sketching out my middle finger would get the message across? That’s all he deserves at this point.
But if I were one of my clients, I’d tell myself to be the bigger person. Let his arrogance roll right off me. Why give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m not over past hurts? I am over them.
That doesn’t mean I want to put up with Will’s company for the next three hours, though.