The Pact (Winslow Brothers #2)(41)

Monday, April 22nd, New York

Daisy

If you’re looking for peace and relaxation, do not go to JFK Airport. Do not marry a man to save your residency in the United States, do not move across the country, and do not do it within a week’s time.

I juggle my carry-on and big backpack through the narrow hallway that leads to baggage claim, hoping to find some peace away from the bustle of passengers running for their flights and lining up way too early, but it’s nothing like I hoped.

It is a madhouse. Every baggage claim is surrounded by impatient passengers who have just arrived, and the people who have managed to get their bags are careening through the crowd with their luggage like it’s the Indy 500.

Honestly, I’m surprised to see that it’s this busy on a Monday evening, but I’m a na?ve Canadian who’s been living her life at an energy-depleting level for the last week, and New York eats its young for breakfast. I really hope I survive.

Swallowing thickly, I set my backpack down on the floor and take a minute to blow some of the wild curls of my hair out of my face. There’s a river of sweat running down my back from anxiety, and I need to calm the eff down if I have any hope of getting all my shit off the baggage belt and out to a cab.

Okay, Daisy. You can do this. You’re an independent woman, for Pete’s sake. You’ve been on your own most of your life, and this isn’t any different now.

Gathering myself, I check the board for my carousel number, and with my bags slung over my shoulders again, I head for the crowd standing around it. I have to dodge a group of rowdy twentysomething men with golf bags and nearly get run over by a woman with a screaming toddler sitting on her carry-on suitcase, but I make it to the shiny silver oval just as the red-siren-light thingie on the top starts to buzz.

Preparing, I drop my bags to the tile at my feet, tie my curls back in a loose ponytail, and adjust my favorite cutoff jean shorts. A couple of jigs and hops on my toes, and I’d be a boxer in the corner of the ring readying for her fight.

I take my position to the side of the conveyor belt bringing the luggage to the carousel and wait. In a shocking twist, I’m startled when the white of my bags is the first thing I see cresting the top of the hill and dumping onto the shiny silver metal.

Woo-hoo! This almost never happens!

I jockey through the crowd, using gentle elbows to make my body seem bigger than it is, and lean over the edge as I wait for my luggage to get to me. Having them right in a row is a challenge, but thanks to all my hyping, I’m gamed up and ready.

I step forward and latch on to the first handle and then the second, and I grit my teeth against the weight of them as I pull two of my suitcases with both of my arms and lift.

Unfortunately, between the weight and the instability of the soles of my poorly planned sandals, the bags and the carousel lift me, instead of the other way around.

Shit, oh shit! I scream internally as the panic of being dragged along in front of the people waiting for their luggage overwhelms me. Do something, Daisy!

Within a second, I’m fully aboard the carousel, the handles of my bags still in my hands as I ride around the oval like an airport cowboy. People start to shout for security—and I’m so tangled in myself and my hysteria that I can’t figure out how to get free.

Before I know it, the conveyor looms ahead, the bulky weight of the bags it’s spitting out dangerously apparent by the sound they make when they slide to the bottom.

Oh God. Oh God! I’m going to be crushed!

I’m a little ashamed to say that the first and only line of defense I can come up with is to close my eyes, but that’s probably why it’s so shocking when large hands scoop under my knees and around my back and lift me free of the chaos.

A yell of panic swells in my throat, but when I open my eyes to the tall handsomeness of my contractual husband, all my terror recedes like a wave.

Holy shit, Flynn?!

He sets me down on my feet, and I pull my white T-shirt down until only the small sliver of my stomach that’s supposed to be exposed is left in the breeze.

My eyes feel so wide they might take over my face, and my chest heaves with the exertion of my debacle.

“That was a bit of a close call, huh?” he asks as if I haven’t just single-handedly brought shame to the city of New York.

“W-what are you doing here?”

“I came to pick you up from the airport,” he answers simply, only then releasing his hold on my hips he’d been using to steady me.

“You came to pick me up?” I question, dumbfounded. I… Well, I don’t know what I thought. But I didn’t think this. “We didn’t make any arrangements, and I figured I was going to meet you at your apartment.”

He frowns. “Daisy, there was no way in hell I was going to make you navigate the New York craziness by yourself after a long flight. That’d be cruel.”

I search his vivid blue eyes for a long moment, for something, anything, to calm the racing beat of my heart and the twisted, almost painful warmth in my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever known what it’s like to have someone other than myself this invested in my well-being.

“So…uh…since you’re here, mind helping me get my bags off the carousel? I’m still fresh off adrenaline from that near-death experience a few minutes ago, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to give it a second go just yet.”