A Chance at Love

Chapter Three

#Anya's POV

The sun wasn't even close to rising on the horizon when my eyes fluttered open. I snuggled closer to Marcus, his smell, spice and wood, filled my nostrils. I heard a buzzing coming from somewhere nearby and lifted my head to glance around. Before I could find the source of the interruption, my eyes caught sight of the digital clock on the nightstand.

Fuck! 4:45.

I had to get to the airport as soon as I possibly could. My flight left in three hours. Carefully, I slid out from under Marcus' arm and moved to sit up. I stood and dressed as I found pieces of my clothing, keeping quiet. It took me a moment to find my bra and I never found my panties, but they could stay. Like a souvenir. Chuckling at myself as I slid my feet into my shoes before I walked over to the door and picked up my bag. I pulled out a notepad and pen, writing my name and number on it. Just as I was tearing the paper out of the pad, my phone started to go off. Cursing, I fumbled for it, trying to silence it to keep Marcus from waking up.

I took a last look at him, his arm stretched out over the bed and the sheets clinched in his hand, his face turned towards me and a look of contentment on his face. I must be crazy, because all I can think about is crawling back into bed and staying with him. The connection we had was so natural. I'd never been one to actually believe in love at first sight, despite writing about it, but looking at him now, lying there with a content little smile on his lips, I found myself believing it. I don't know when it happened, sometime between his first smile at me and the first touch of his lips against mine, but I found myself imagining what this could turn into.

But I didn't want to get my hopes up. Realistically, this was just a casual flirtation with him. One night of pleasure for both of us. But hey, a girl could dream.

I opened the door and slipped out, heading for my room to grab my things. Luckily, most of my stuff was packed up yesterday before I left for the conference event. I grabbed the set of clothing I'd laid out to travel in; a pair of comfy black slacks and a large, but not too heavy, turquoise sweater. I showered quickly, pulling my hair into a bun, minimal backup, and slipped on the clothing. I choose slip on wedged sandals, easy to slide on and off through security and on the plane. Then, luggage in hand, I left the hotel, looking back once as the taxi pulled away.

Hours later, I'm on the plane looking through my bag for my notepad to make notes. As I pulled it out, my heart broke, the note I was leaving for Marcus was still in the pad, half torn out. I let out a soft little whimper. Dammit, did I lose my chance? The moment I landed in New York, I'd call the hotel. I had his room number, his first name. Hopefully I could be put through, or at least, leave a message.

The rest of the flight was me overthinking the situation. Like I was some twenty-something who had no experience, not just with men, but with life in general. If I never see him again, it's not meant to be. Plain and simple.

At some point, I fall asleep halfway on the flight and when I wake up, it's to a flight attendant gently patting my arm. "Ma'am, we've landed."

I sit up and look around, embarrassed. The plane is empty.

Apologizing, I grabbed my bag from the floor and my carry-on from the cargo above, then headed off to find the luggage carousel.

Waiting for our luggage, I dialed my Edinburgh hotel and asked to be connected to Marcus's room, giving them the number. Just as the concierge was telling me that the guest in that room had already left, I heard my name being shouted. I thanked the man on the phone politely and then hung up as I turned around to see my best friend rushing over towards me.

Clara Tucker, who looked like Brigitte Bardot, was gorgeous and a bombshell. She was tall, with an almost perfect hour-glass shape and long naturally blond hair, the color of wheat, and large blue eyes. She'd been my friend since school, both of us attending Stuyvesant High School. We were both girls from the projects, looking to get out with our intelligence and book smarts. We hit it off instantly. I hung out with her Irish-American family, large and loud, protective. And she fit in with my Puerto Rican family, also large, loud and protective, just darker and harder to understand.

When Clara had gone off to Harvard, me Columbia, we still managed to spend as much time together as possible. Every weekend, every break, we'd usually be together. Clara, she was my ride-or-die, my soul sister. When I got my first novel published, just something I'd written as a hobby, but had enjoyed writing it, I gave up on the idea of working in business. She's my biggest supporter.

"Lu!" Came her sweet and chaotic voice again as she neared, opening her arms wide to embrace me. "Chica, I feel like I haven't seen you in months."

I laughed, hugging her back. "Three months, to be exact."

She groaned, arms tightening around me before she released me with a grin. "Just in time too. We've got so much to do now that you're back in town. Dresses, cake tastings, planning the ultimate bacholarette-"

I held up a hand. "Slow down, you've got seven months before the wedding. You're going to scare Jordan off if you turn into a Bridezilla." Clara had been planning the wedding since her fiancée had proposed last year. They'd been dating for five years, had worked together for ten and had become friends somewhere in between.

But Clara just chuckled and moved towards the luggage, looking for my bag. "Jordan knows that I have a vision." She said dramatically.

I snort and spot my bag coming towards us. "Bougie ass!" I say, reaching for the handle.