“Hey, you could have waited for hulk to lift that one. I think that’s all shoes.”
“One suitcase, Kirb. That’s all I have with me. All I need. How the heck do you really think you’re going to need eight of these suckers when you’ll be flying back and forth from here to New York? You can just get new stuff when you go home.” I pull my hair tie out and readjust what was a sleek ponytail into a knot on the top of my head. “I’m sweating,” I complain. “I bet I smell. Oh, crap. We’re going to the house first, right?”
“Yes, Ms. Tate. The house is where we’re headed next.”
“Okay, good. I can shower. Then what, Kirby?”
“Calm down, babe.” She laughs. “From what Sam said in our correspondence over the week, today is our day to get settled, but he would be by at some point to make formal introductions.”
“To whom?” I ask stupidly knowing darn well what the answer will be.
Kirby annoyingly just shrugs her shoulders and with a smirk, pulls her sunglasses from her large purse before turning and following Cam’s lead.
So, this is how she’s going to play it.
“Do we have time to stop and grab some fast food real quick?” Kirby inquires, and I cringe.
Fast food is on the long list of foods I avoid at all costs. Covered in oversaturated sodium, usually deep fried, and always bad for me. Hopefully, Kirby wasn’t paying attention during our short flight, and I can pass on food without raising any of her red flags.
Hiding how little I eat is becoming a full-time job. I eat; I don’t think my regimen would be considered an eating disorder, but it’s far from healthy. I skip breakfast, lunch is usually a protein bar or something equally light, and since I’m alone at dinner, I usually just nibble on a salad and carrot sticks. I keep telling myself that after the next ten pounds I lose, I’ll start eating more. But that’s been going on for the last twenty I’ve shed … so I’ll stick to what I know for a little longer while I get down to my goal weight.
“Right this way,” Cam says and points to the two sleek black SUVs right outside the door. “Ms. Evans, if you would, you and your family can go ahead and get settled.” He directs Kirby, Rob, and Alli to the first big black vehicle before guiding me to the one behind it. “Mrs. Evans was nice enough to warn us that she would have a considerable amount of luggage with her, and with this many bags, it’s necessary that we have two. If you’ll follow me, you’ll meet back up with Mrs. Evans when we arrive at your house.”
“Kirb?” I call, twisting my fingers together in my lap.
“It’s time to start that life, my little creature of comfort. Just jump right out of that zone you’ve been stuck in.” She winks, and I want to throttle her for throwing Eddie’s words back in my face.
I look back and forth between the two cars and take a deep, steadying breath. Okay, enough of this scared Willow. It’s time to live your life and live it for yourself. It’s time to stop worrying about what others think of you. Time to stop living in the fear of upsetting someone because you’re your own person and to hell with what anyone thinks.
One step in front of the other.
I give Cam a smile, one I actually feel with the lightness in my step, and move toward the second vehicle. He follows behind and opens the back door, offering his hand to help me step up onto the shiny metal step before I place my bottom down and move to swing my legs inside.
“Thank you, Ca— oh, crap.” The smile I had dies and the calm I had been feeling packs up and says to heck with this.
“Hello, Willow.”
I close my eyes. Crap. Crap. Crap.
He laughs, the sound deep and rough. I feel that sinfully dangerous sound all the way between my legs, causing me to push my knees together and bite the inside of my cheek.
“Do I make you nervous, Willow?”
“Yup,” I answer, the end making a loud pop in the silence around us.
“I promise I won’t bite,” he jokes then adds almost as an afterthought, “That is, unless you ask me to.”
My eyes snap open, and I look into the crystal blue eyes of Kane Masters. The dark stubble dancing across the sharp planes of his jaw don’t mask the laugh lines around his thick lips or the small, almost inconspicuous dimple in his left cheek. His thick hair is unruly, as if he’s run his fingers through it a few dozen times.
He’s utterly perfect.
And I’m sitting in front of him rumpled from travel, sweaty from hustling through the busy Atlanta airport, and just a big, hot mess.
I’m the imperfect to his perfect.
“Crap,” I grumble.