Clara glared. She hated flying. Loathed it. Abhorred everything about it. The lines to get into the airport, the astronomical fees to keep her old Honda in the parking garage, stripping down to her bare essentials at the security checks, that machine that had probably x-rayed her down to her hoo-hah flaps, and she definitely despised the TSA agent who was grinning at her when he picked her out of the crowd to step into the contraption. She was wearing a tank top and cut-off shorts. What could she have possibly been hiding? They’d even dusted her fingers for powder residue. She got it. She really did. Safety first and all, but she was pretty sure she was picked on because she was a registered shifter.
But none of that—not a bit of it—compared to the actual flying. Her journey had been split up by two brutal layovers, one of which she’d fallen asleep in a chair and had nearly missed her connecting flight.
But she was here, and in one piece, and not a colorful smear on the pavement from a plane crash. Bloody Marys had gotten her through. The teen had probably bopped her on the head on purpose because she had refused to let him syphon off her drink about six times.
Clara smiled politely and gestured a harried mother with an infant in front of her.
“I’m just happy to get off the flight with that crying kid,” a man in a business suit muttered behind the mother. “If you can’t keep your kid from crying, you should just stay at home with it.”
Clara let her pissed-off bear out just enough to glare at the man with a dead, toothy grin and probably bright blue, inhuman eyes. Hey, she was registered, and not having to hide her inner animal was basically the only perk to this gig. She even let off a snarl until the man stepped back from the woman.
“Pardona moi,” Clara murmured as she muscled her white, floral duffle bag into the aisle in front of the man-baby. Hadn’t he seen the mother pacing the center aisle trying to keep her baby calm? For chrissakes, she’d done everything she could, and could anyone blame the baby for not wanting to be cooped up on the plane with that grumpy butt face? Poor kid couldn’t even drink Bloody Marys. “Hi,” Clara cooed at the baby, giving a gummy smile over her mother’s shoulder. The woman struggled with a bag so Clara offered to help.
“Thank you,” the woman said on a relieved breath. “I’ve never flown with her before.” She turned and exclaimed, “Oh!”
Clara scrunched up her nose. “It’s the eyes, right? I’m a shifter. They’ll fade in a minute.”
The woman, bless her, only looked taken aback for a moment before a smile took her face. “I’ve never met one of you before.”
Clara laughed and moved forward behind the woman. The line was brutally slow. “Yeah, I didn’t much like being caged on this plane either,” she said with a goofy face for the grinning, drooling baby. What a cutie-pie. Big hazel eyes and chubby cheeks and oh! She wanted to cuddle her up. But she wouldn’t because that would be weird and she would get arrested.
Out of the plane at last, Clara carried the woman’s luggage until she met up with her awaiting husband and didn’t need her help anymore. Clara smiled, waved goodbye, and tried her best to ignore the slashing ache through her middle when she ripped her gaze away from that cute little baby. She wanted one of those. She’d wanted a cub of her own since she was twenty, but sometimes things just didn’t work out like that.
Okay, she didn’t have any luggage other than the carry-on bag on her shoulder, so next up was tracking down a taxi. Or a bus? She looked around the small airport and hoped they had taxi service out in the wilderness. When she’d searched Saratoga online, it looked like a tiny guacamole stain on the map.
“Ms. Sutterfield?” A dark-headed man with animated eyebrows and soft brown eyes held a sign higher. It definitely had her name scribbled across it.
“That’s me,” she said, confused.
The man stared for a moment too long to be polite. “Uh, I’m Mason.” He tucked the sign under his arm and offered his hand, still staring. His attention was flattering, but she knew what she looked like. Frizzy, red hair drawn up in curls thanks to the rainy weather, freckles everywhere, and green eyes not lined with mascara or eyeliner because she thought she would do her make-up in the taxi. Or on the bus.
“You a ginger chaser?” she asked, cocking her head.
“A what?” Mason’s eyes widened with comprehension. “Oh, no, you just look familiar.”
She drew up short and clutched her bag to her middle. Well, that was new. Her look was…unique. She’d never been mistaken for anyone else in her entire life.