A festive new, fake engagement, forced proximity, he-falls-first, hockey romance is out this week from Claudia Burgoa, and you can read an awesome excerpt right here.
Excerpt
I turn back to him and find him watching me.
Up close, his eyes are worse.
Not pretty. Pretty is manageable. Pretty can be filed away with nice smiles, decent jawlines, and men who remember to text back.
These eyes are observant. Annoyed. Tired in a way that doesn’t ask for sympathy and would probably bite it if offered.
“What?” I ask.
“You do that a lot?”
“Fix PR while trying to keep my patients from hurting themselves further?” I arch an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Talk until people leave.”
I lift one shoulder. “It’s one of my gifts. My tía calls it verbal smoke bombing.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“My family is Mexican.” I grin. “We can turn anything into a compliment if the delivery is judgmental enough.”
His mouth moves.
Not a smile. Not even close. More like his face briefly considered the concept and rejected it on moral grounds.
Still, I’ll take it.
“Your left side is doing the emotional labor of a divorced father of three,” I say, pointing to his luggage. “Put the bag down.”
Crew looks at the duffel, then at me. “Excuse me?”
“You’re favoring your right leg, guarding through your hip, and pretending your jaw isn’t clenched. Either you’re injured, stubborn, or auditioning for a medication commercial where everyone stares meaningfully out windows.”
He blinks once.
Very slowly.
“I’m fine.”
I glare at him. “Fine is not a medical diagnosis.”
“I didn’t ask for a diagnosis.”
“No, you asked your adductor to participate in a hostage situation, but it declined.”
His mouth firms. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.”
His eyes narrow. “That sounds threatening.”
“It’s only threatening if you continue making medically poor choices in front of me.”
“Are you always this bossy with strangers?”
“Only the ones actively fighting their own groin.”
His face goes blank. “Don’t say groin in an airport.”
I scoff. “Would you prefer upper-inner-thigh catastrophe?”
“I prefer silence.”
I point. “Your adductor disagrees.”
The gate agent coughs into her hand.
Poorly.
She’s laughing. I respect the attempt at professionalism, but the woman is going to rupture something.
Crew cuts her a look.
She immediately pretends to check her tablet.
He turns back to me. “You always this invested in strangers’ luggage?”
“Only when the stranger’s medical chart has become my problem.”
Crew stills.
I smile with all the innocence I do not possess.
His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”
“It means you should board the plane without committing a soft tissue crime.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“Few things in life do.”
The boarding announcement crackles over the speakers. Pre-boarding begins for families with small children, passengers needing extra assistance, and those who have achieved spiritual superiority through airline rewards programs.
I turn to the attendant and let her know Crew needs extra assistance.
He’s about to protest when I reach for his duffel at the same time he does.
I click my tongue.
He stops.
Slowly turns.
“No,” I say.
“You’re not in charge of me.”
“Not yet,” I repeat.
His gaze narrows, and for one small, dangerous second, the air between us goes too quiet.
Before he can ask, the gate agent calls first class and priority boarding. Crew grips the duffel anyway, because men are committed to disappointment, and takes a step toward the line.
His right hip catches again.
He hides it well.
Not well enough.
I move beside him. “You know, they offer assistance for people who—”
“No.”
“I didn’t finish.”
“You were going to say I need help.”
“I was going to say some people are smart enough to accept services they already paid for with wildly overpriced airfare.”
“I don’t need assistance.”
“Congratulations. Neither does Guillermo, yet he travels in a padded pocket because we respect skeletal integrity.”
Crew looks at me for a long second. “Who the fuck is Guillermo?”
“My skeletal foot model.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
For one glorious second, Crew Wolfcraft appears to have no idea what to do with me.
I feel like Abuela would be proud.
The boarding line moves. Crew shifts forward, still holding the duffel.
I sigh and reach for it.
He pulls it away. “Don’t.”
“You are not planting, twisting, and dragging that thing like your groin hasn’t already filed a complaint with management.”
“I can carry my own bag.”
“I’m sure you can. I can also eat an entire tres leches cake by myself in a dark kitchen while rethinking my life choices. Ability is not the same as wisdom.”
A woman in line behind us snorts.
Crew hears it.
I see the exact moment he realizes other people are listening.
His jaw flexes. “Are you done?”
“No.”
“Try.”
I hold out my hand. “Give the gate agent the bag.”
“No.”
“Then let her check it.”
“No.”
“Then let the flight attendant stow it.”
“No.”
“Wow. Such range.”
He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to mine.
Terrible idea.
For him, obviously.
Not for me.
I am immune to stubborn men with dangerous, stormy eyes and cheekbones that look like they were carved in a thunderstorm.
Completely immune.
Possibly.
Mostly.
Ish.
“You always this bossy before coffee?” he asks.
“I’m worse after coffee. More focused.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“Be afraid.” I give him a challenging look.
The gate agent scans his boarding pass. Then mine.
We step onto the jet bridge, trapped in the slow shuffle of travelers wearing too many layers and lugging too many emotional support snacks.
Crew walks ahead of me, which gives me a perfect view of his assets.
A clinically useful view.
Not an objectifying one.
I am a professional.
Unfortunately, professionalism does not make the man less broad from behind.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning.
“I’m assessing.”
“My ass?”
“Your compensation pattern.”
“My what?”
“Your body is snitching on you.”
“Does it do that often?” He looks over his shoulder, brow raised skeptically.
“I just met you, but bodies are good at telling me their problems, even when their person refuses to admit them.”
He faces forward, but I catch the small shake of his head.
We board the plane, and naturally, the travel gods continue their work.
First class because the clinic booked my travel under the client itinerary, and someone in administration either loves me or has failed upward beautifully.
Crew stops in the aisle.
I stop behind him.
He looks at his seat. Then mine. Then me.
Mine is 3A.
His is 3B.
“No,” he says.
I beam. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
“We met once.”
“And look how far we’ve come.”
The flight attendant appears, smiling in the tense way of someone who has already dealt with seventeen holiday travelers and one emotional support ferret today.
“Good morning,” she says. “Can I help with your bag?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Crew says at the same time.
The flight attendant looks between us.
I point to his duffel. “He’s recovering from a lower-body injury and is about to pretend that overhead luggage doesn’t require balance, core stabilization, or common sense.”
Crew gives me a look that could freeze soup.
The flight attendant’s smile shifts. Women in customer service can spot male nonsense at forty paces. It’s one of the skills they don’t list on résumés because society would collapse under the truth.
“Sir,” she says, “I’m happy to lift that for you.”
“I’ve got it.”
I stow my luggage, take my seat, cross my legs, and pull out my tablet. “Wonderful. I’ll note the refusal of assistance before takeoff.”
He looks down at me. “Note it where?”
“In my heart.”
The flight attendant coughs into her hand.
Crew exhales through his nose, then hands over the duffel like it personally betrayed him.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly.
He lowers himself into his seat with the controlled precision of a man who would rather eat glass than admit that sitting hurts.
The flight attendant stows his bag and disappears to assist someone arguing with a garment bag.
Crew buckles his seat belt.
I open my tablet and pretend not to feel his attention on the side of my face.
“You never told me your name,” he says.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You planning to?”
“Eventually.”
“You’re strange.”
“Thank you.”
“Again. Not a compliment.”
“Again. Cultural adaptability.”
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