The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(41)

Or committing a murder, even when you’re only doing what has to be done . . .

The alarm goes off, jarring Elena from a sound sleep.

Lying in her bed in that split second before she opens her eyes, she knows that something is off, but what is it?

She forces her eyelids open. The room is dark—rainy day dark, though, not night dark. According to her digital alarm clock, the time is wrong. It’s an hour later than she usually gets up, which is . . .

Wait a minute. This isn’t a weekday, it’s a Saturday.

She usually sleeps in on weekends, but this morning she only gets an extra hour because she has a flight to catch because she’s going to—

Starting to roll over, Elena gasps.

That’s it. That’s what’s off. Not the time or the dreary light that’s falling across her bed, but the fact that someone is sharing it with her.

Lying absolutely still so as not to wake whoever it is, she thinks back to last night. She was at the staff party, held at a banquet hall located about halfway between the school and the town where she lives. She remembers the speeches—she even delivered one, in honor of the retiring Betty Jamison—and she remembers the dinner, but not the dessert, and . . .

Wine . . . there was a lot of wine. Too much wine.

Again.

Dammit. When will she ever learn?

The waiter kept refilling my glass . . .

Yes, sure, it’s the waiter’s fault.

She remembers thinking that he was cute and wondering whether he was straight or not. She remembers that he was looking at her sympathetically, probably keeping the wine flowing because . . .

Oh, God.

She closes her eyes again, listening to her visitor’s rhythmic snoring in time to the rain pattering on the roof.

She has a wicked headache; her mouth is dry, stomach queasy . . .

Queasy not just because of the wine, but because she just remembered the reason the waiter took pity on her.

She arrived late and got stuck at the end of the table next to the one person no one else wanted to sit near.

Now she forces herself to roll over, open her eyes, and confront the ugly truth snoozing away right here in her bed, covers thrown down to reveal his hairy chest.

Tony Kerwin.

Landry had been worried about making her relatively tight connection in Atlanta, but thanks to thunderstorms rolling across Georgia, the outbound flight is going to be delayed at least an hour.

Settled into a seat at the gate, facing a wall of plate glass so that she can watch the torrential rain, she calls home to let Rob know she made it this far.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Fine. Landing was a little bumpy because of the weather.” She tells him about the delay, then asks to talk to the kids.

“Addison went out for a run, and Tucker’s still in bed.”

“Okay. Tell them to call me if they want. I have nothing to do but sit here and wait.”

“I’ll leave a note. I’m headed out golfing.”

“Oh, right.” He goes early to beat the afternoon thunderstorms that tend to roll in at this time of year.

“I was thinking that later, after I get out of work, I’ll take them for crab claws and po’boys at Big Daddy’s.”

“Wish I could go.”

“No claws and po’boys in Cincinnati?”

“I doubt it.”

She can hear clattering plates and silverware in the background and knows he’s emptying the dishwasher. For some reason, that makes her even more homesick than the sound of his voice . . . and she’s only been gone a few hours.

After hanging up with Rob, she wonders briefly if she should text both Elena and Kay to let them know she might be arriving late, but decides against it. The memorial service doesn’t start until three o’clock. Even with the delay, she’ll be arriving with plenty of time to spare.

What now?

She has her laptop with her. She’d been thinking she might find time during the weekend to write a new blog post, something she hasn’t done all week. She hasn’t had the heart to write about the tragedy, or the interest in anything else.

I still don’t. Maybe after the funeral. But not now.

The laptop stays in her bag. She’s idly flipping through one of the celebrity gossip rags Addison gave her, trying to become absorbed in the latest tinsel town divorce scandal, when a shadow falls over the page.

She looks up, startled.

A man she recognizes as having been on her flight out from Mobile says, “Hi. Would you mind . . . I’m going to go grab a coffee and I’d rather not lug my bags.” He points to a rolling suitcase and leather messenger bag a few seats away. “Can you keep an eye on them for a few minutes?”

He has a brisk demeanor and a northern accent. Remembering that the TSA is always making announcements about untended luggage, she hesitates, then nods. “Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you. Can I bring you something? Do you drink coffee?”

“I do, but . . . no, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She watches him stride away through the boarding area, then glances at his bags again, wondering whether he’s on the same connecting flight or one that’s delayed out of a nearby gate, then wondering why she’s suddenly feeling vaguely guilty for wondering—not to mention for noticing that he’s handsome.