When the Heart Falls(99)

The man behind the counter, without a hint of a smile, asks me for my passport. With sweaty palms, I hand it to him, counting to ten in my mind and trying to calm my heart rate lest he hears its frantic beating.

"Where do you live?" He looks up as he asks this, holding my passport to compare to my face.

My passport picture is horrible. I was sick that day and looked jaundiced. Will he think it's not me? That it's fake? And what does he mean by where do I live? Like my home address or city, county, state? Country? Though I'd think country would be obvious by my passport. I don't really want this creepy dude knowing my home address, so I start with the broadest classification I can get away with. "I live in the United States." My voice shakes when I say this, and his eyes narrow in.

"Full address, ma'am." His hand slips under the counter, and I wonder if he's hitting a silent buzzer to notify security that he has a potential criminal on his hands.

"3211 Primrose Avenue, Bronxville, New York." My mouth is dry, my tongue feels swollen to twice its size.

"Where are you going?"

I show him my ticket. "Paris, France. I'm studying at the Sorbonne."

"What is the purpose of your travels?"

Didn't I already answer this part? "To study," I say slowly, in case he's having a hard time understanding. "At the Sorbonne."

"When do you plan on returning?"

Well, now, that's a much trickier question. "It depends. I'm going to be there at least the summer, but if things go well, I could be there the whole year."

Placing my paperwork on the counter, I point to my student visa and acceptance letter. "See?"

He proceeds to ask me a series of questions about my luggage. If I'm taking any perishables with me? Is this a huge criminal problem, I wonder? Is the smuggling of a pineapple really an international emergency? Once I answer everything to his satisfaction, he hands me my passport back and I exhale in relief.

He points to another line. "You may go."

He didn't stamp my passport. It's a silly thing, maybe, but that stamp is symbolic of my journey and I really want it, but don't want to draw more attention to myself. I hesitate, pivoting back and forth on my feet in indecision.

"Ma'am, please move along."

Summoning my boldness, I place the passport on the counter. "Would you mind stamping this? It's sentimental."

He rolls his eyes, but stamps it as asked, and I nearly skip off to the next line, relieved that the worst of my first airport experience is over.

Daring helped me pack, so I don't break a sweat at this next part, and already have my shoes, belt and jacket off, laptop pulled out, and my travel size toothpaste and hair products in their baggies and sitting on the top of my luggage by the time it's my turn to place my belongings on the belt for it to be scanned in the X-ray machine. No buzzers go off as I walk through the metal detector, which, since I'm practically naked now, is not a big surprise, but my bag doesn't pop out the other side like everyone else's.

In fact, they stop the belt and pull my bag, like it might be a bomb or something.

Luggage backs up, causing one bag to fall off the machine. Angry travelers glare at me, as if I've made it my mission in life to make them late. Only one person doesn't make me feel like a total jerk. He looks like a cowboy with his wide-brimmed brown leather hat, pointy boots and belt buckle. I suck in a breath when we make eye contact, his blue eyes two shades darker than mine. This is the kind of man writers dedicate romance novels to. Broad chested with ropes of muscles under his shirt, strength earned from real work not a gym, skin sun-kissed and glowing. He smiles at me and my knees go weak.

Le sigh.

Feeling the heat rush to my face, I nod my head in my most regal fashion and turn away as the scrawny 20-something guy working behind the x-ray machine asks me to follow him so he can inspect my bag.

He steps to the side and opens my red carry-on, shuffling through my iPad, a change of clothes and other staples I was told to always carry with me in case my luggage was ever lost. There are perks to being one of the youngest in a family of world travelers.

My jaw drops when he pulls out a gallon sized plastic baggie and dumps the contents—items I've never seen before in my life—onto the counter. Holding up a pair of red G-String panties with a matching bra, if that slip of silk can be called a bra, and a handful of—oh my God—condoms?

He smirks at me and reads aloud the note that's in the baggie. "Winter, Have some fun this summer. Here's a starter sex kit to help you out. All my love, your favorite cousin, Daring."

I want to die.

I want the floor to open up and swallow me, or lightning to strike me dead.

I want them to arrest me, just so I can get away from the dozens of eyes taking in my humiliation.

I fight the urge to tell them I have a bomb, or maybe that I am the bomb. Or to tell them I'm a drug mule. Anything to divert attention from the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.

And then I remember the hot cowboy.

Who's standing behind me.

Who heard and saw everything.

My cheeks, I can already feel, are a flaming red. I probably look like my head is about to explode. I wish it would, so I won't have to live in this moment any longer.

An older woman, probably the supervisor, grabs the note and the panties from the jerk staring at me. "I think you've sufficiently searched this bag." She nods sympathetically at me and shoves Daring's gift back under my clothes, zipping my suitcase shut. "Sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am. You can take your belongings and head to your gate now."