Pucking Around: Chapter 2

“I don’t know what else to tell you, ma’am. I’m looking at the screen, and I’m not seeing any record of your bags,” the airline desk clerk drones for the third time.

I let out an exasperated groan, juggling my heavy backpack and purse on my shoulder while I snatch up the receipts on the counter. “Then explain these,” I say, flapping them in the air. “The guy in Cincy checked all three of my bags. Clearly, they connected somewhere because—look—I’ve got one right here!” I gesture to the bag at my feet. It’s one of Tess’s old bags. The thing is holding itself together with little more than a prayer.

This is officially a disaster. The two missing bags have pretty much all my essentials. The bag I managed to claim was a last-minute pack job of odds and ends—a few medical textbooks, some bulky winter clothes, two evening gowns, and random workout stuff. I’m gonna look great waltzing into my first day of work tomorrow wearing a custom backless Chanel dress and my spin shoes.

“Can you please check again,” I say, slapping the receipts back down on the counter.

It’s been 32 hours of pure chaos. I’m hungry, I’m exhausted, and I’m feeling totally on edge after a long day dealing with multiple delayed flights. I didn’t even sleep last night, too busy packing. I said a tearful goodbye to Tess before I was at the airport by 6:00AM for my first flight.

But a series of mechanical delays means it’s now after 5:00pm, and I’ve only just landed in Jacksonville. And now this human gargoyle wearing a button on her vest that says ‘I love corgis’ is telling me my luggage has disappeared off the face of the earth.

“I don’t understand how two bags can just go missing—”

“Oh…wait,” she murmurs, the screen of the computer glowing in the reflection off her glasses. “Yeeep…here they are. I typed the flight number in wrong.”

I stay very still. It’s easier this way. I don’t get a manager called on me this way…or a police officer. “Please just find them.”

While she starts clicking away, I shift the bags on my shoulder, looking down at my phone. It’s been blowing up since I stepped up to the counter. Apparently, it finally decided to wake up from airplane mode. All the messages come flooding in at once.

I’m sure Tess wants updates. There are a few messages in the Price Family group chat too. I also have a few messages from an unknown number. I read those first.

UNKNOWN (5:05PM): Hey, this is Caleb Sanford from the Rays. I’ll be picking you up from the airport. I drive a blue Jeep.

UNKNOWN (5:15PM): I’m here. Outside door 2.

UNKNOWN (5:20PM): Can’t sit much longer before the guy makes me go around again.

Shit. No one said there would be an airport pickup!

UNKNOWN (5:30PM): MISSED CALL

UNKNOWN (5:45PM): Look, I don’t mean to be a dick, but I can’t wait much longer. It says your flight arrived 45min ago.

UNKNOWN (5:47PM): This is Dr. Price, right?

“Oh my god,” I cry, shifting all my stuff around on my shoulder.

Great, now I look like a total jerk that just ignores calls and texts for an hour, leaving people to wait on me. I need to call this guy back. I need to get out of this damn airport!

“Please,” I say over the counter for what feels like the hundredth time. “If the bags aren’t here, I can come back, but I can’t just keep standing here—”

She raises a hand in my face. “Ma’am, I need you to calm down.”

Oh, no she didn’t.

“Calm down?” I seethe. “I haven’t begun to be un-calm. You’re the one who said my bags weren’t even in the system two seconds ago—” I choke back the rest of my tirade. It’s not worth it. “Please,” I say again. “Just tell me—”

“Got it,” she murmurs, her eyes back on the screen. “Looks like two of the bags were misdirected during your connecting flight in Charlotte. We can have them rerouted here sometime tomorrow morning.”

I sigh with relief. “Thank god. What do you need from me?”

“Nothing,” she replies, sliding the bag receipts back across the counter at me. “We’ve got all your contact info. Someone will be in touch letting you know when the bags have arrived.”

I snatch up the receipts. “Thanks,” I mutter, only adding the ‘for nothing’ inside my own head.

“Welcome to Jacksonville,” she deadpans, already waving at the next person in line.

I fight with the strap of my purse, which is now wrapped in my backpack strap and hooked around my metal water bottle. At the same time, I reach down for the handle of my checked bag. It’s one of those boxy, black rectangles, lumpy down the front with all the odds and ends I’ve crammed inside. The thing weighs a ton! Whatever, it rolls. And now I’m on a roll.

I hurry away from the lost baggage desk, dragging my one lonely bag behind me. I’ve got my purse strapped across my body, so my left hand can be free. I’m already tapping the call button on my phone. It rings and he picks up immediately.

“Hello?” His voice is deep.

“Hi—” Shit—what was this guy’s name? “This is Rachel Price,” I say. “I’m so sorry! My bags are lost and then my phone was stuck on airplane mode—it was a whole thing. I’m coming out now!”

“I’m pulling around again,” he says. I can hear music rocking in the background. “Blue Jeep.” He hangs up.

I race over to the double doors marked with a big number 2 and rush outside. The Florida heat hits me like a slap to the face. I’m used to the dry heat of a California summer, not this swamp. Thank goodness my hair is already up in a knot. I’ve got to get this hoodie off pronto.

A topless, dark blue Jeep pulls to a stop at the crosswalk about ten yards away. A surfboard is strapped to the top rails, and a dog peeks his head out of the backseat. He’s adorable—black pointy ears, with a white snout like a border collie. His pink tongue lolls from his mouth.

I run towards the Jeep, the wheels of my bag rattling against the cement. I lift my hand holding the phone, awkwardly waving the Jeep down. The guy in the driver’s seat nods. He’s wearing aviators and a ball cap with the brim pulled low.

“Hi,” I say, breathless as I stop at the passenger side of the Jeep. “I’m Rachel Price. I’m so sorry again! My phone wasn’t working, and two of my bags are missing, and I’ve been up for 36 hours, and I’m just a red-hot mess. But I’m here now, and I’m ready to go and—ohmygod, you are so cute—”

The guy in the front seat stiffens, his mouth opening a little in surprise, but I’m not actually paying attention to him. As I spilled my guts, the dog hopped between the seats, popping his face over the edge of the passenger door. He’s got gorgeous icy blue eyes, so bright and curious. I’m a huge sucker for animals. I could never have one growing up with the way we always traveled, so now I become painfully awkward in social settings if there is a dog involved.

“Sy, back,” his owner commands, cranking the Jeep into park.

The dog wiggles his whole body, his tail flapping in the guy’s face before he hops dutifully into the backseat.

“Need help with your bags?”

“Oh, no. I can get it,” I say, my eye going back to him.

Oh shit.

Here I am fawning over a cute dog when his owner is even cuter. He slips his aviators off, tucking them into the top of his t-shirt, and I get the full effect of those dark eyes and cheekbones for days. He’s got a day or two of stubble along his jaw, and the sexiest bow pout to his lips.

“I—”

Girl, get yourself together.

I snap my mouth shut.

Shit, when did it open?

“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Let me just…” I don’t even bother finishing the sentence. I just duck my head in shame and move around the back of the Jeep.

“Here, let me,” he calls out. “The door can get jammed sometimes.” That’s when he unfolds himself from the driver’s seat and—oh my sweet heavens. He’s sculpted perfection. I could see the shoulders from the Jeep, but I wasn’t betting on the height too.

He’s graceful as he moves, turning his back on me to fiddle with the door. Ink covers his right arm from the wrist up, disappearing under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Swirls of color and detailed patterns. He swings the door open, and I step back, ready to heft my bag inside.

“Here, let me get it,” he mutters.

“No, don’t bother.” Why is my voice coming out so squeaky?

“That looks heavy.”

“I’m a big girl,” I reply, hefting it by the handle.

Then a few things happen at once. First, the car behind us honks, making me jump and the dog bark. Then the PA system starts blaring about parking in restricted areas. Lastly, as I lift the bag, I snag the edge of the door. This must have been just enough force to fray the ancient bag’s last will to live. I hear the fabric tear, and then all hell breaks loose.

And by hell, I mean the contents of my bag. Yep, I stand there, mouth open in horror, watching as all my belongings flood from the shredded canvas, spilling all over the curb at our feet.

Surfer Boy exchanges a wide-eyed look with me before we jolt into action, trying to catch all my falling stuff. I shriek as a book slams down on my exposed toes. This has me knocking back against the open Jeep door. Now the dog is barking in alarm, watching us scramble to keep my stuff from rolling into oncoming traffic.

Once we get the bag to the ground, I drop to my knees, desperate to shove everything back inside.

This is it. I’ve finally found it.

Hello, limit. I’m Rachel.

I work quickly, stuffing things back inside the broken bag. A few seconds pass when I realize Surfer Boy is just standing there, making no effort to help me. I glance up, my eyes trailing up his bare legs dusted with sand. Did he come straight from the beach? I pass over his board shorts, up his cut torso, to his face.

He’s looking down, but he’s not looking at me. No, he’s looking at the thing in his hands. His expression is frozen on his face, totally unreadable.

And thing is right because—

Oh my fucking god.

My heart drops out of my chest. Someone bury me in the earth right here in this airport loading zone. And make sure to dig a hole for Tess right next to me, because I plan to haunt her to death! Surfer Boy is holding a dildo. My dildo. It was a gag gift from Tess, and it’s most certainly a gag that she packed it for me. It has to be, because the dildo is large and purple and shaped like an octopus tentacle.