Just Like That
by
Nicola Rendell
Release Date: April 10, 2017
Genre: Romantic Comedy
"I
bet I can untangle you."
At an
airport baggage claim, Penny Darling looks up from her knotted mess of ear buds
to find the sexiest hunk of man she's ever seen. He's got a military haircut, a
scar through his eyebrow, and he's rocking a pastel pink dress shirt like only
a real man can. But Penny is on a man-free diet so she leaves the airport
without succumbing to his delicious double-entendres...or his dreamy dimples.
PI Russ
Macklin can't take his eyes off Penny. As she sashays out of the airport with
hips swaying and curls bouncing, he suspects they may share more than just
sweltering chemistry. That suitcase she's rolling along behind her? It looks a
lot like his.
Because
it is.
When he
tracks her down, he holds her bag hostage in exchange for a date. Their night
begins with margaritas and ends in urgent care, and Russ proves that Cosmo's
theory about a very particular type of orgasm was oh-so-wrong.
In
Penny, Russ finds a small-town sweetheart with a very naughty side. For the
first time ever, he’s thinking about picket fences. Penny finds in Russ a
loving, caring man who understands the power of massaging showerheads.
But
Russ is only in Port Flamingo for a week. They agree it'll be a fling and
nothing more. Because really, they can't fall ass-over-teakettle in love just
like that...
Can
they?
99k words. HEA. Dual POV. No cheating.
Featuring a big drooly dog named Guppy.
Pre-order exclusively via
iBooks HERE
Russ
I step
off the escalator, and there she is. She’s looking down, doing something with
her phone. Air conditioning blows on her from above, making the hem of her
purple dress flutter against her leg. And fuck, look at those legs. Look at
that body. Look at that woman. Underneath the dress, instead of a bra she’s
wearing the top half of a pink bikini, tied at the nape of her neck in a bow.
Welcome
to Florida. God bless the Sunshine State.
The
place is dismal, except for her. On the walls are 1980s tourism posters,
rippling with the humidity. All the guys have Magnum, P.I. mustaches, and all
the women look like extras from Baywatch. She’s a vision in the middle of all
of it, an oasis at the goddamned baggage claim. I circle the clumps of old
people bumping into each other with walkers, like slow-motion bumper cars. As I
get closer, I see her face. Her freckles, her slightly shiny pink lips. Her
breasts, which are fucking beautiful. But her expression, it isn’t beautiful.
It’s seriously pissed. Nostrils flared, teeth set, jaw clenched.
In her
hands is a whole big tangle of ear buds, and maybe a phone charger. A big knot
of cords, like a wad of cold pasta.
I get
closer. Not too close, because I don’t want to be that guy, but close enough to
see the small starfish necklace dangling from her neck, and close enough to
smell something warm, and sweet. Familiar. Vanilla, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s
fucking delicious.
On the
wall behind her is a big banner. It’s got a faded old cartoon flamingo,
flapping his wings and grinning. Underneath is the caption:
WELCOME
TO PORT FLAMINGO! HOME OF THE FIRST AIR CONDITIONER!
No
shit. Because it’s hot, and I don’t mean like ordinary summertime hot. I mean
hot like the time the sauna malfunctioned at my gym and turned all the drywall
in the locker room into oatmeal. She doesn’t look hot at all though. She looks
cool, and soft, and beautiful. Just the thing I need. Like a vodka soda after a
long fucking day.
I set
my shoulder bag at my feet and take off my suit jacket. Her braid comes down
over one shoulder, the curl at the bottom nestling into her cleavage. I roll up
my sleeves. “I bet I can untangle you.”
She
looks up at me. Her eyes are deep blue and sparkling. A smile starts to pinch
her cheeks. The end of the charger swings between us. “I’m okay. Got myself
into this mess, got to get myself out of it.”
“Sometimes
two is better than one.”
She
smacks her lips at the cords. “Sometimes.” She pulls hard on the plug end,
making the wires tighten even more. “You’d think I’d learn to keep that little
plastic box that comes with these, but oh no, every—” She tugs. “—single.” Tugs
again. “—time.”
Granted,
she’s not exactly in need of rescue from a burning building, but no way am I
going to stand here and watch her struggle, no fucking way. Without another
word, I start undoing the end of the tangle that’s nearest me, and I watch that
smile of hers get bigger. She doesn’t look at me, but I see a dimple, and she
bites her lip.
Still
focused on the knot, she says, “Let me guess. You’re not from around here, are
you?”
Can’t
imagine what gave me away. Maybe the fact that I’m the only guy in the building
wearing slacks and actual shoes. “Here on business.”
She
looks me up and down. “What kind of business? FBI?”
Fuck.
Not the first conversation I want to have, definitely not. Also, I don’t know a
single fed who wears pants this nice. “Private business.”
“Hmmm.”
She eyes me more mischievously. “Tall, dark, and a military haircut. Something
tells me you’re not here to do some competitive bass fishing. “
Oh man.
Cute. Really cute. “No, I’m not.”
Slowly,
the tangle comes undone, until we’re in the middle together. Reminds me of that
scene in Lady and the Tramp.
But
before I can say anything more—like, for instance, I’m down for 20 questions,
as long as it’s over a drink—the buzzer on the carousel roars to life, as loud
as a tornado siren. The crush of people starts to tighten around the conveyor.
She winds the three sets of ear buds and the cord around her palm. From the
pocket of my bag, I take out the plastic case that came with my ear buds and
hand it over. “There.”
She
laughs through her nose. “I’ll be okay.”
“I
insist.” I press it into her hand, and her eyes meet mine.
“I’ll
bet you do.” She looks away as a blush covers her cheeks.
The
bags start to rumble off the conveyor. For one long second, she watches me,
smiling. Sizing me up. The little curls around her face tremble in the air
conditioning, and I’m about to say You, me, a pitcher of margaritas, tonight
when she looks away and hoists her purse up on her shoulder.
“That’s
my bag,” she says. “I should get going. Thanks for…untangling me.”
She
steps away and threads her way between a handful of old ladies in walkers. I
know I should help her, I know I should grab her bag, but holy fuck look at
that body.
She
grabs her bag herself and flips up the handle.
“Give
me your number. Let me take you out for dinner.”
Her
smile dissolves into a scowl. “You married?”
I shake
my head slowly. “I’m a lot of things, but married definitely isn’t one of
them.”
“Separated?”
Shake
my head again. “Nope.”
She
takes her starfish charm between thumb and forefinger and loops the chain over
her lip. “Under any restraining orders? Involved in a complicated love triangle
that your Match.com profile describes as an open marriage? Divorced five times
and counting? Polyamorous?”
Whoa.
This girl’s got to find a new dating pool, stat. “Promise. I’m Russ, and what
you see is what you get.”
Zip-zip-zip
goes her necklace.
“Just a
drink.” I lift my hands out between us, to say C’mon. “Maybe dinner, if I make
the cut.”
She
blinks hard a few times and she drops her necklace charm. “I’m sorry. You’re
sweet, but I can’t.”
Well,
fuck it. The first time I try to get back in the saddle in ages and the goddamn
thing slides right down onto the ground again. I respect it though. I don’t
want to overdo this, so I give her a final nod and clear my throat. “Had to
try.”
She
swallows hard. “I’m glad you did.”
Fuck.
And
she’s gone. As she goes, her hips sway with her dress. She works that sashay,
as my aunt says, like a fucking pro. She looks back over her shoulder, only
once, as she walks through the sliding doors. I give her a wink.
And she
fucking winks back.
Jesus
Christ.
She
takes a left out of the door, which means she isn’t gone yet. Not by a long
shot. The architecture does me a favor, and I get to watch her sashay right
past the floor-to-ceiling windows. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, not even
if I wanted to. She smiles at the sidewalk without looking up, and laughs a
little. Like she knows I’m watching her and is feeling pretty good about it.
God,
what a cutie. And what a bummer. She was fucking sexy, she seemed sweet, and
there was something about her that was up to no good. I couldn’t quite put my
finger on it, but it was somewhere between the bikini top and I’m glad you did.
But the spark wasn’t all we had in common. I realize, as she finally disappears
from view, she also has a bag that looks just like mine.
Medium-sized
black Samsonite. Sensible, dependable. Number One Amazon Bestseller in Luggage.
But
that couldn’t be my bag, I think to myself as I turn back toward the conveyor.
Couldn’t be.
***
It was.
Twenty minutes later, I’m the only guy standing by the carousel, and there’s a
single black bag going around and around in front of me. It’s exactly the same
as mine, except it’s overstuffed and has a pink puff of yarn tied to the
handle. Same color as her bikini top and literally hanging by a thread.
It
slides to a stop, and the yarn ball swings off the side of the carousel.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
A
rattle from the center of the conveyor sounds promising—I was early connecting
through Atlanta, so my bag had to be the first one on—but no dice. What comes
off the conveyor isn’t a bag at all, but instead one of the baggage guys in big
set of protective earphones and a reflective vest. He crawls up through the
flap and pokes his head out. He wipes his forehead on his bare leathery
shoulder and then looks from me to the bag and back again. “Nice pom-pom, man,”
he says and backtracks down the hole.
I
glance around for some airport help on this, but all I see is a handwritten
sign at the baggage claim desk. Will Return On Monday!
It’s
Saturday.
Christ.
As I
take hold of the bag, I notice it’s got not one but three “LIFT WITH CAUTION”
tags: the first one new, the second one beat up, and the third one halfway
shredded, all together the way people keep lift tickets from ski areas. I give
it a hoist. The thing is so heavy it makes me grunt like I’m doing a dead lift.
With a two-handed lug, I yank it off the conveyor and set it on the ground,
wheels down.
Squeezing
the roller handle, I pull it up…and it snaps off right in my hand. The arms
stick up from the suitcase like the tines of a fork.
I
clench my eyes shut and think back to “the most helpful critical review” from
Amazon. “Looks like every other bag on the planet. Sh**ty handle.”
Touché.
But it is what it is. Which is her bag, hopefully.
I wheel
it along to a bank of benches, by some old beat-up phone booths, lining the far
wall. I open up the ID pouch and read:
PENELOPE
DARLING
125 E.
BEACH POINT DRIVE
PORT
FLAMINGO, FL 34102
I bite
down on my gum and groan. How cute is that name? Jesus Christ, come on. Penny
Darling. What’s more, it’s not a business card or typed up like mine, but
written by hand. Her writing is sweet, pretty, and feminine, with big plump
letters written in bright pink marker that’s bled into the plastic cover, so
they’ve got a haze around them like neon lights. And there, at the bottom.
Her
number.
Jackpot.
It
might not be my smoothest move, but I’ll take it. I pull my phone from my
pocket and give her a call. As I wait for the ringtone, I decide to hell with
suave and understated. I want her, and I need her to know it.
But
then in my ear I hear, “Mobile Network Temporarily Unavailable.”
Goddamned
Verizon, jamming up my plans. So I try to text her instead.
This is
Russ.
From
the airport.
I've
got your bag and I think you’ve got mine.
How
about that drink?
I hit
send, and I’m answered immediately with a row of red exclamation points and
four repetitions of NOT DELIVERED. What. The. Fuck.
Then I
noticed my cell service flips over from 1 bar, to Roaming, to Searching for
service…
I pull
my hot pack of gum from my sweaty pocket and take out a second piece. The gum
is weirdly melted even before I put it in my mouth.
The
options now are pretty simple: I could touch base with the guy who hired me to
come down here to the land that Verizon forgot or…
I think
about those tan lines, the curve of her hips. That bikini. The glisten on her
rosy lips. The way she wrinkled her nose when she smiled.
Why is
this even a goddamned question? It’s four o’clock on a Saturday. A beautiful
woman is on East Beach Point Drive with all my stuff. And somewhere in this
town, I’ll bet there’s a beachside bar with a pitcher of margaritas with our
names on it.
Nicola Rendell writes dirty, funny, erotic
romance. She likes a stiff drink and a well-frosted cake. She is at an unnamed
Ivy and prefers to remain mostly anonymous for professional reasons. She has a
PhD in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from schools that shall not be
named here. She loves to cook, sew, and play the piano. She realizes that her
hobbies might make her sound like an old lady and she’s totally okay with that.
She lives with her husband and her dogs. She is from Taos, New Mexico.
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