Ache For You

5

By the time I’m smashed into my economy seat between a three-hundred-pound woman with a crying baby on her lap and a college student with a head cold and a tattoo on the back of his left hand that reads f**k the police, I’ve been in a fender bender that almost made me miss the flight, been jostled by irate travelers and smacked by carry-ons too many times to count, and endured a grueling second-tier screening from a hostile TSA agent who seemed convinced I was hiding contraband in a bodily orifice.

The earliest flight out I could book has a layover in New York. When my flight arrives at JFK, I stumble bleary-eyed from the plane in search of coffee and extra-strength hand sanitizer.

Whatever bug that college student had, it produced a lot of phlegm.

I’m just about to get at the back of the long line at Starbucks when I spot a discreet silver plaque on the wall next to an elevator across the corridor from where I’m standing. It reads Centurion Lounge.

Sweet Jesus, it’s an American Express members’ lounge!

I run so fast to that elevator I almost trample a family of four in my rush. Ignoring the father’s grumble of displeasure, I stab my finger on the elevator call button. My mouth salivates at the thought of the oasis of luxury and tranquility I’m about to enjoy, thanks to Satan.

My shiny new platinum card in the name of Mrs. Bradley Hamilton Wingate arrived in the mail only last week.

The woman at the check-in desk smiles pleasantly, sweeps the card through a reader to confirm I’m a member, then says, “Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Wingate. All food and beverages in the lounge are complimentary. You’re welcome to take advantage of the massage and facial services offered in the private spa room near the back. Those are also complimentary.”

I want to kiss her.

She tells me to enjoy my stay, and I wander out of the check-in area into a large, attractively decorated room. Seating areas, tables, and comfortable-looking chairs dot the carpeted floor. A bar dominates one end of the space. Beside it stretches a buffet where a few travelers browse, holding plates. Classical music plays softly on hidden speakers, and I’m in heaven.

I drop into a big comfy armchair beside the wall of windows that overlooks the runways. Onto the chair next to me, I deposit my carry-on, coat, and handbag. A smiling waitress approaches with a tray of drinks.

“Champagne, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.” I take the flute from her hands with near-religious gratitude, like she’s offered me the Holy Grail. I proceed to guzzle the contents in one go, then slump down in the chair and exhale a huge, exhausted sigh.

Which is when I spot him.

He’s so breath-stealingly beautiful I think I must be hallucinating. That’s literally my first thought when I glimpse the god striding toward the bar—I’m hallucinating. I must be, because not only is he masculine perfection personified, it appears he’s moving in slow motion.

Either his beauty has changed the laws of physics or there was something funny in that champagne.

He’s tall and dark haired, with that unstudied, aristocratic elegance certain men are born with. I decide he’s European. I’m not sure which is more gorgeous, his face or his outfit. In stark contrast to all the other travelers in the lounge, who are dressed for comfort, he looks as if he stepped off a fashion show runway.

His bespoke navy blue suit is molded perfectly to his muscular body. The collar of his dress shirt is so white it glows, setting off the gorgeous olive hue of his skin. A cashmere overcoat the color of butterscotch hangs from his broad shoulders. I catch a glimpse of a silk pocket square, a chunky silver watch, and a pair of shoes that look made from the kind of buttery soft leather you want to rub your cheek against.

The urge to throw myself at his feet and nuzzle his loafers seizes me.

I watch as he approaches the bar and says something to the bartender. Polishing a glass, she turns, catches sight of him, and freezes. Her eyes bulge.

Euro Hunk must get that a lot.

He has to repeat himself twice before the poor woman finds the presence of mind to respond. Then she pours him a drink, hands it to him with a shaky hand and an even shakier smile, and starts blinking as if she’s trying to signal someone for help.

I’d laugh, but I feel sorry for her. The man is too stunning for words, let alone rational behavior.

He takes a swallow of the amber liquid in his glass, then turns and sweeps his gaze over the room.

I quickly look away. Although I’m a pathetic jilted bride who’s the laughingstock of the internet, I still have enough pride not to be caught drooling at a stranger.

No other female in sight has such scruples. I’ve never seen so many gaping people in my life. Even some of the men are staring in awe.

My fascination with Euro Hunk fizzles as fast as it came.

This guy makes Brad look like Homer Simpson—and Brad’s gorgeous. So if Brad’s ego and self-confidence were at stratospheric levels, I can’t even imagine what a pompous, conceited ass Euro Hunk must be. He’s probably got a woman in every city around the globe.

I decide I hate him.

Him and his perfect hair and his superhero’s jaw and his stupid cashmere overcoat.

Who even wears one of those, anyway? What is he, a count? Actually, he does look like he could be a count. I bet he’s totally entitled. I bet he has twelve mistresses and is cheap with his servants and beats his dog.

Like they do when I’m irritated, my lips pinch into the dried-prune shape that used to get on Brad’s last nerve. When I look up again, Euro Hunk is staring straight at me with intense scrutiny.

Shit.