by Bru Baker
“Three weeks. I had epic plans for us, you know. But then you had to go and ruin it by going to Canada.”
Crawford pursed his lips. “If I had to guess, I’d say your epic plans involved me helping you pack, so I’ll pass. And since I doubt you even had plans for that before you found out Davis would be in Vancouver, I’m calling bullshit on the whole thing. You can’t get me to stay by trying to make me feel guilty. It’s my job, Adam. And I’m good at it. And so is he, even though I’d much rather he was awful at it. He’s a prick, but he’s got good instincts and people skills.”
Adam growled. “My ass.”
“He was pretty good at that too,” Crawford said, managing to curl in protectively around himself before Adam pounced a second later and hit him with a light uppercut to the ribs. Hard enough to hitch his breath but probably not hard enough to bruise.
“Uncalled for,” Crawford said after his coughing fit subsided and he had his breath back.
“Ditto,” Adam said, still scowling. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Pffft. We’ll talk all the time. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. And if you think I’m missing the opportunity to have a free place to crash in Japan, you’re crazy.”
Brandon popped his head in the door. “Are you done, or are you still hugging it out? Is it safe? I don’t want to get caught in the cross fire.”
Adam and Crawford looked at each other and nodded. Brandon had about a two-second head start as he read their intentions and peeled off toward the living room, but he wouldn’t get far.
“Hug sandwich?” Adam asked, his eyes sparkling.
“Obviously.”
Chapter Four
MATEUS loved to fly. When he’d been a child, his father had taken him up often in his tiny Cessna so they could monitor the sprawling fields that had been in their family for generations. By the time he was six, Mateus could identify ripened olives from the air. By the time he was nine, he could competently pilot the plane himself, under his father’s watchful eyes.
Mateus shifted in the uncomfortable airport chair, antsy to board. He should have taken this flight a few weeks ago, but there had been a late frost and he’d had to help Duarte and Bree cover all the buds. On top of the hard winter they’d had and the late spring, they could have lost the entire crop of apples to the unseasonable cold snap.
It was fine. Sure, he was out of money. He’d cashed in his return ticket to Portugal to get the money for the round-trip flight to Vancouver, and it had left him little wiggle room. But it wasn’t like he had many expenses. He didn’t need much, especially with Duarte and Bree providing food and shelter in exchange for his work in the orchard.
Mateus drummed his fingers against the plastic armrest, too keyed up to stay still. They’d be calling for first-class boarding any minute now, though, so he didn’t have time to take a walk to burn off some of his energy. He’d feel so much better once he re-upped his visa. Duarte was sure that in ninety days he’d have the orchard’s finances in good enough shape to actually pay Mateus a wage, which should be enough to get him a work visa. Mateus didn’t even care how much Duarte could pay him—he just needed the steady job so he could have a reason to stay in the States.
To pass the time, Mateus let his eyes wander around the packed terminal. It was storming somewhere to the east, and that had caused a slew of delays and cancellations. He watched a harried businessman argue with an increasingly irritated desk clerk, which was more entertaining than the network news show blaring on the television above him.
The man was absolutely striking. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong-looking, with a jaw that could cut glass and apparently a tongue that could as well. While Mateus couldn’t make out the words, he could tell from the tone they were sharp. Mateus didn’t know what was more enjoyable—his attractiveness or the way his voice dipped low and dangerous the angrier he got. His dark hair was sprinkled with silver, just the way Mateus liked it, so aesthetics won out.
He grinned to himself and slid down in his chair, giving himself a better angle from which to view the escalating confrontation. Mateus had always been attracted to older men. They were more settled in their lifestyle and less prone to tiresome dramatics. His preferred age had always been around late thirties to early forties, and that hadn’t changed as he approached that age himself. He supposed in time it would be younger men who held his fancy, if his taste stayed the same.
More than just age, though, he was attracted to men who exuded a certain confidence, both in bed and out of it.
The man with the salt-and-pepper hair at the counter definitely had that going for him. He cut a fine form in his tailored suit, but it was the crisp authority in his tone that really did it for Mateus. He needed to shut that line of thinking down before he ensured a very uncomfortable flight for himself.
Mateus reluctantly tore his attention away from the scene. He had a few books in the bag at his feet, but nothing that caught his interest at the moment. He’d meant to bring the latest issue of Annals of Botany, but he’d forgotten in the rush of packing.
Maybe he could find a job in biotech if the orchard stayed unprofitable, he mused. Lab work had never really appealed to him, but those types of firms had big allotments for work visas. It might be a way to keep himself here, and it would only be a few years’ commitment. By then surely he and Duarte would have the orchard back to full productivity.
It was all just bad timing. The run-down orchard hadn’t been a bad buy. Duarte had the expertise to bring it back to life, especially with Mateus’s help. The loans Duarte had taken out to buy it had been a safe bet, but the economy had taken a dive shortly afterward, sending the variable rate interest loan that had seemed like a good deal at the time sky-high.
Throw in a bad growing season or two and it was a recipe for disaster. His brother had been forced to begin selling off parcels of land to keep up with the payments on the mortgages, but he was down to the orchard itself now, so that avenue was closed off.
Shaking off those fruitless cogitations, Mateus let his gaze roam around the terminal once more, covertly eyeing the businessman he’d been watching. When his argument at the check-in counter hadn’t gotten the fellow anywhere, he’d taken a seat across from Mateus. He’d had the man pegged as first class, but he hadn’t disappeared into the first-class lounge after he’d finished with the clerk. He’d focused his glower on the smartphone in his hand, his jaw set in a hard line as he scrolled through something that kept his interest. The designer suit he wore couldn’t hide all that coiled strength or the way each motion made his biceps bulge.
Mateus craned his neck a bit to try to read the mystery man’s ticket, which was tucked into an outside pocket on his satchel. From his suit he looked more like an attaché-case type, but the bag was leather and obviously expensive. A hipster businessman, then. Mateus couldn’t make out anything other than the boarding zone, which was the same as his. So coach. Huh. That was odd. The guy had first class written all over him.
It wasn’t a huge surprise when the desk clerk made the announcement that their flight was delayed. The distinct lack of an airplane at the end of the Jetway was one obvious clue. And for another, no crew had shown up to board. The handsome man stood suddenly, moved his things out of the way, and pointed to his seat. His glower had been replaced with an inviting smile, and Mateus had a flash of irrational, white-hot jealousy until he realized the man was motioning to a hugely pregnant woman. She took the seat with a grateful nod, and the man was gone an instant later, gracefully navigating the slew of phone chargers, luggage, and people that littered the floor. Mateus observed him as he made his way over to the window and started pacing, his ridiculous satchel slung over his shoulder, carelessly wrinkling his suit. His wingtips were well shined, and his pants still had a crease in them, so he couldn’t have traveled far to this point. Maybe he was a local.
Which reminded Mateus of his next priority after his visa mess was sorted out. He needed to get into the local dating scene.
He’d been to Seattle to check out a few clubs, so it wasn’t like he’d been a monk, but he wanted more than just the opportunity to scratch an itch. Maybe Bree’s meddling had hit closer to home than he’d thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a gate change for Flight 892 to Vancouver. It will now be leaving out of gate B12 in terminal two. The new departure time will be two thirty. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
Everyone around him rose and began stuffing things into bags with abandon. Several people took off running like they were in danger of missing the flight. Mateus glanced down at his watch, just to check. It was barely noon. People were always so high-strung in airports.
He flicked his gaze over to the well-dressed man, a little surprised to see he hadn’t been one of the ones to bolt off toward the new gate. Mateus took his time packing up his things, though he didn’t have much with him. He had a five-hour layover in Vancouver—well, it would be three, now—before he boarded a plane back to Seattle. He’d brought a small case with some books, his laptop, and some toiletries, along with a change of clothes just in case, and he was glad he had. With the way things were going, he was probably going to end up stuck in Vancouver for the night—once they finally got there.
Eh, there were worse ways to spend a day. Even though he didn’t understand the high anxiety most travelers seemed to share, it was fun to observe. He loved sitting back and people-watching, and airports were a great place to do that. People were in short supply in the tiny town his brother had settled in. At home in Lisbon, he could waste an entire day sitting in a park or at an outdoor café, watching the people go by, easily separating out the tourists from the locals by the way they dressed and walked, and then guessing at the nationalities of the tourists. It was a fun game.
Mateus stretched and stood up, slung his messenger bag across his body, and grabbed his small rolling suitcase. There was a coffee place at the end of the concourse. He could wander that way and get a drink before hopping the tram that would take him to terminal two. Maybe he’d grab some lunch as well. It was a short flight to Vancouver, but then he’d have to go through customs, and that could take a while. His stomach growled right on cue.
So. Lunch first, then. And a coffee after. He set off through the crowd, scanning the bright neon signs along the concourse. He hated eating in airports. Not only was the food often greasy and unappealing, but all the smells mixed together. The unappetizing cacophony of scents usually gave him a headache, and today was no different. His temples pulsed, and he rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to dispel the tension there. Something simple and then coffee.
He’d never had lettuce in an airport that didn’t end up being slimy and gross, so he passed up the boxed salads and picked up a container of yogurt topped with granola and fruit. It would ease the hunger enough for him to take something for his headache, and he could get something more substantial in Vancouver. Or maybe actually leave the airport and get some real food if his flight ended up being delayed too badly on the way back.
There weren’t any free tables at the food court, which was probably a blessing. He needed to get away from the food smell before his headache ramped up and he ended up nauseated too. He slipped the fruit into his bag and made sure the top on the yogurt was tight before striding off toward the other end of the concourse, where the tram for terminal two picked up. Every gate seemed to be overflowing with passengers, so it wasn’t just theirs that was delayed. The weather seemed okay, but you could never tell here. It could be fine one minute and pouring the next. That had been an adjustment—he was used to living near the coast, but this one was far less temperate. Sun was a rare commodity, and cool weather seemed to prevail all year round. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he could see why some people didn’t favor the Pacific Northwest.
He found a spot near a bank of old-school pay phones. The phones had been taken out, leaving only the steel frames behind. He slid into a chair and rested for a minute, trying to force his muscles to unclench. Maybe terminal two had one of those pay-by-the-minute massage places. He rolled his shoulders, wondering if he was tense enough to be that desperate. Probably not.
He should have eaten more for breakfast, but he’d hoped to be in Vancouver by now. He opened up his yogurt, figuring he could take his fruit on the plane for later. He was too worried about the yogurt going bad to risk waiting to eat that. Though if it had been the tangy, tart kind of yogurt he’d grown up with, there probably would have been enough good bacteria in there to ward off anything nasty. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to the sweet, thick yogurt Americans favored. It would do for now, though, and it was worlds above the greasy burgers or soggy pizza offered elsewhere.
He dug a spoon out of his bag and forced himself to take a bite. It wasn’t terrible, but the granola was soggy from sitting on top of the yogurt. He stirred it in and decided to just bolt the entire thing down. It would take his stomach a few minutes to register that he wasn’t still hungry, but at this point it was more about getting it down than actually enjoying the food.
As he was swallowing a particularly big bite, he saw the handsome businessman walk by. He’d pegged him as a health nut from his rangy muscles and his overall clean-cut aura, but the man had a bag from McDonald’s in one hand and a bag of Auntie Anne’s pretzels in the other. So he’d clearly misjudged that one.
Mateus knew he shouldn’t say anything, but he was too intrigued not to. “Looking for a spot to sit? Not a lot of competition for these old phones, so you’re welcome to join me here.”
The man looked startled, but after a slight hesitation walked over and sat a seat away. “You’re headed to Vancouver too, aren’t you? I thought I saw you at the gate.”
Mateus tried not to preen at that. The gate had been packed, so it had to mean something that the man had picked him out of the crowd. “I don’t think there’s a very good chance the plane will be there when we get over to terminal two,” he confided.
“No, definitely not. There’s a mechanical problem, and they said they were flying in a part from somewhere else. That’s why we’re changing gates. It’s closer to where the other plane is coming in. I tried to get onto another flight to Vancouver, but they were all overbooked.”
So that’s what the man had been so upset about with the gate clerk. It made Mateus oddly happy to know the fellow hadn’t been arguing over belonging in first class or something. He’d hate for someone so attractive to be an asshole.
“No luck?”
The man shook his head. “I’m fifth on standby on the last flight out tonight, but everything between now and then is overbooked, so there’s no chance.”
Mateus nodded sympathetically. “Is Vancouver home?”
He was probably trying to get back to a wife and kids. Mateus risked a quick look at the man’s ring finger, but it was bare. Not that that meant anything. Many men didn’t wear their rings. Even Duarte didn’t a lot of the time, though more for practical reasons. With all the labor out in the orchards, a ring could be a liability. A hired hand on the olive farm had lost a finger when his ring had gotten caught in a harvesting machine, and it had left a lasting impression on Duarte and Mateus both.
The man grimaced and shook his head. “No, I’m heading there for work.”
Mateus grinned. “Not many people would be in such a hurry to get to work.”
The man barked out a laugh. “I’m not so much in a hurry to start the work as I am in a hurry to finish it,” he said. He put his bags down on the seat between them and held out his hand. “I’m being terribly rude. I’m Crawford.”
After wiping his hands on his pants in case there was any yogurt on them, Mateus took Crawford’s hand. Crawford’s grip was firm and his skin was soft and warm. Mateus knew his own callused hands must feel rough and hard to Crawford, but Crawford didn’t recoil. If anything, he left their hands entwined just a beat too long, which was interesting.
“Mateus.”
“Nice to meet you, Mateus. Wish it was under bette
r circumstances. Though this is hardly bad for the airport, is it? I mean, my first flight got out on time, which could have been an omen of worse to come.”
Mateus laughed. “This is my only leg, so we’ll blame the delay on you, then.”
The skin at the corners of Crawford’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and Mateus liked it more than he wanted to admit. “So where are you from, if it’s not here?” he asked, afraid that if he didn’t keep the conversation moving, Crawford would pick up his lunch and move on.
“Los Angeles,” Crawford said. His McDonald’s bag rustled when he opened it, and Mateus was surprised to see him pull out a yogurt that didn’t look that different from his own, instead of the greasy burger he’d been expecting. Crawford seemed to notice Mateus’s neglected yogurt at that moment, and he toasted him with his own container. “Gotta take what you can get when it comes to airport food,” he said ruefully before taking the lid off and stirring the congealed fruit into the yogurt.
Mateus picked his own spoon back up and mirrored the motion. It wasn’t going to taste any better warm, so he might as well finish it.
“I’m not a fan. I hate eating fast food,” Mateus admitted.
Crawford nodded and swallowed his bite. “Me too. I’m not much of a cook, but I don’t like any of this,” he said, gesturing toward the fast-food restaurants lining the concourse. “Though hot pretzels are my kryptonite. I rarely have them, but since today is going from bad to worse, I decided to treat myself.”
He looked both ashamed and defiant, and it was endearing. It made Crawford look ten years younger. Not that Mateus knew how old he was, but he was guessing fortysomething. The silvering at Crawford’s temples and the laugh lines were a clear giveaway, though he was fit and healthy-looking.
“I’ve never had them, so I won’t judge you,” Mateus said. He looked at Crawford out of the corner of his eye, not sure if they were flirting or not. It felt like they were. Were they? Or was Crawford just happy to find someone to talk to in a boring airport during a long layover?