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  JUST LIKE THAT

  Nicola Rendell

  © 2017 by Nicola Rendell

  All rights reserved.

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  Cover photo: Getty Images

  Cover Design: Najla Qambar Designs

  Editing: Aquila Editing; Librum Artis Editorial Services Proofreading: Karin Enders; Keyanna Butler/The Indie Author’s Apprentice; Mila Grayson

  Publicity: Ardent Prose PR

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  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written consent of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  www.nicolarendell.com

  For D.

  You’re so modern.

  “Have a heart that never hardens.”

  - Dickens

  1

  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 running 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 earbuds, 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 briefcase shoulder bag at my feet and take off my suit jacket. Her braid comes down over one shoulder; the curl at the bottom nestles 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 gets 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 dress pants 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 earbuds and the cord around her palm. From the pocket of my bag, I take out the plastic case that came with my earbuds 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 herself between a handful of old ladies in walkers. I know I should help her; I should grab her bag, but holy fuck, look at that body.

  She grabs her suitcase 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?”

  I 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.”

  Sh
e 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—something right 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.

  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 its 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 a big set of protective ear muffs 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 vanishes back 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 Thursday.

  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 right off in my hand. The arms stick up from the suitcase like 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 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 notice my cell service flips over from one 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 in the afternoon. 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.

  2

  Penny

  The parking shuttle drops me at the wrong end of the Super Saver Economy Lot, leaving me in a cloud of biodiesel that smells like very old, very overcooked french fries, but I don’t mind. I don’t even mind that I’ve lost my pom-pom, or that my hair has gotten tangled in the nose pad of my sunglasses when I flipped them up on my head, or that my flip-flops stick to the sizzling asphalt with every step. None of it bothers me a bit because I’m still swimming in him, absolutely swimming. With his dreamy eyes and his pastel pink shirt and his forearms.

  His sideburns. His biceps. His buns.

  The dress pants. Those were especially nice. They were charcoal gray and wool. Normally, wool would make me think about an impending case of heat rash, but not on him. On him, they made me think about sex on office desks, file folders flying and staplers crashing to the ground. I wonder if he was wearing boxers or briefs under there. Or maybe even boxer briefs.

  My favorite.

  I lug my suitcase along and steer around a seagull assaulting a chocolate cupcake. I think about how his hand brushed against mine, how he came on strong but not too strong. A bit aggressive, a bit cocky, but not too much. Just right.

  But as yummy as he was, I stayed strong. I stuck to the plan. I prevailed. I pull out my phone from my bra and flip open my calendar. NO MAN DIET. DAY 27 of 60.

  The whole idea is Cosmo’s fault, but after the year I’ve had, it’s a necessary detox. I’m not sure what happened to me when I got into my thirties, but it’s like I’m suffering from some kind of condition. It used to be that after one conversation with a man I’d know if he was dateable or not, just like you know if the container of half-and-half has gone sour by sticking your nose in it. I used to have the same kind of common sense about men. Dateable, undateable. Good news. Bad news. Clingy. Small tipper. But then my biological clock started chiming and boom! Goodbye man-sense.

  But that Russ, with his hint of cologne and his stubble, and his jawline. And his untangling me.

  Curse this No Man Diet. Curse it.

  I plunge my hand into my black hole of a purse to dig for my keys. The first thing I grab is the earbud holder, his earbud holder, which was tucked into his bag, probably right next to a stack of heavyweight business cards with some sort of manly font. Private Security Consultant, maybe. Russell Whatever (Insert Branch of Military).

  A soldier!

  Pennnnnnnny.

  I hoist my suitcase into the trunk of my Bronco, balancing it on the tailgate before giving it a good shove from underneath to get it to tumble inside. I slam the back door and get in the driver’s seat. The pleather seat sears the backs of my thighs, making me feel like a cold chicken breast hitting a hot pan.

  I love this place, I do. It’s home, it’s everything I know. But cer
tain things—like the fact that you’ll cook yourself alive in a parked car and yet you can’t take cover under any shade-casting object unless you want to spend the next week scraping seagull shit off your paint job—take the romance right out of paradise.

  Except I’m feeling much hotter than usual. I grab the front of my dress and flap it to get some airflow.

  I bet I can untangle you.

  Two is better than one.

  I plunge my hand into my purse again and grab my refreshing cucumber water. I shut my eyes and give myself a half dozen rapid spritzes. But it doesn’t help, because this isn’t Gulf Coast hot. This is hot-mess hot. And it’s all his fault.

  * * *

  All my attempts to distract myself from him—driving too fast, listening to Adele too loud, stopping for an extra-large root beer float with extra whipped cream and not one, not two, but three cherries—fail miserably. I can’t stop thinking about him, and I really want to see those buns again. The fact that he’s here on business limits the places he could be staying. He’s either planning to chance it in an RV at the KOA campground—can’t imagine him grilling steaks outside a double wide, but if he’s in swim trunks I don’t mind trying—or he’s staying at the Residence Inn. I mean, I could always use the earbud holder as an excuse. Freshen up my hair, give myself a few more cucumber spritzes, and mosey on over there to have a look-see… The No Man Diet doesn’t specify anything against a mosey or a look-see. But as I pull into my driveway, I have to hit pause on my fantasy. Because there’s something happening outside.

  And it doesn’t sound right.

  I cut the engine and listen. The noise, whatever it is, roars out over the top of the squeals of little kids playing on the beach, over the constant husshhhhhh of the palm trees and the cackling of the gulls. As I try to place it—is that mechanical? human? demonic?—I wind my earbuds up in the holder. I do it carefully, savoring every loop.