Travelers walk in several distinct paces: brisk, trudging, and harried—the last usually reserved for families. Viewed as a whole, these paces set a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. Maybe that’s why I notice the lone person bobbing along at top speed from far down the massive corridor. A guy. And he’s running.

Idly, I watch him. He’s easily a head taller than anyone in the airport, which is something in and of itself. Even from this distance, his face hovers above the moving sea of people. Though I can’t distinguish his features, it’s clear that he’s anxious. And he’s fast, weaving around slower-moving passengers with an ease that’s impressive for someone so tall.

He’s closer now, close enough that I can see his broad shoulders and wide chest. Close enough to see the gold glints in his dark blond hair as he runs past a thick block of sunlight shafting in through the plate-glass windows.

All at once, my breath grows fast and my heart rate kicks up. A smile pulls at my face as I rise to my feet. I want to hope, want to believe. But he isn’t looking at me. His gaze, hard and determined, is on the arrivals gate.

God, but the way he moves—fast water over smooth stones. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Massive, muscled yet perfectly proportioned and at ease within his skin, he’s clearly an athlete. And he’s gorgeous. Strong jaw, chiseled features, golden skin, and sun-kissed hair.

He blows right past me, only to stop on a dime at the edge of the cordoned-off area of the arrivals gate. For a minute, he scans left and right, his gaze never going far enough to meet mine. Then he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, and curses under his breath. He isn’t winded, but upset. It’s clear. And when he curses again, he pushes himself straight and starts to pace, as if standing still is too much for him.

Muttering and scowling, he stalks a wide circle, bringing his hands behind his neck in aggravation. The move does crazy things to his biceps, bunching them up, making them even bigger. I doubt I could get my hands around them. Though I imagine trying.

And all the while, I grin like a fool. I can’t help myself. I’m grinning still when his gaze finally collides with mine.

Distracted as he is, his eyes almost scan past me, but he sort of stutters and then freezes. For a moment we stare at each other. His soft mouth parts and his arms slowly lower. Recognition clears the haziness from his blue eyes, and a flush of color rises up his neck.

A current crackles between us, lifting the tiny hairs along my arms. My breath catches then turns swift. It’s joy, unfiltered and pure. And so heady I almost don’t know how to handle it.

As if he feels some strong emotion too, his cheek twitches. He takes one step toward me, pauses, tilting his head to peer at me as though trying to make sure. And I smile wider. Seeing me smile has his lips curling, a slow, tentative move.

“Mac?” Although he’s at least twenty feet away, I read my name on his lips with ease. And then I’m laughing, a total goofball snort.

“Gray.”

Even from a distance, he hears me. And then he’s moving, so quick he’s almost a blur. On the next breath, I’m enveloped by a wall of hot skin and hard muscles. He gathers me in his arms and swings me around like it’s effortless. For the first time in a year, I feel delicate and small. He smells of sunlight and sweat and, strangely, of home. I press my nose into the warm crook of his neck as he laughs and squeezes me tight.

We’ve never touched before now, never even seen each other in person. Yet there is nothing awkward about wrapping myself around him. It feels perfect, makes my heart melt and my entire body strain toward his.

Gray’s hand engulfs the back of my head as he holds me close. “Holy shit,” he says in a voice that’s resonant and yet light with happiness. We’ve been texting back and forth so much I’d had to pay extra on my phone plan, and I’ve never heard his voice until now. “It’s you, Mac. It’s really you.”

And it’s really Gray. The person I’ve communicated with almost non-stop since that first text. So quickly, he became a friend, a necessary part of my day. My strange addiction. The thought leaves me shy. Yet I don’t want to let go.

* * *

Gray

I can’t believe I’m holding her in my arms. Ivy Mackenzie. Aside from Drew, I’ve never clicked with someone so quickly. Now she’s here.

And, God, she feels good. Solid, real. Soft, warm. She smells of airplane food, stale coffee, and travel. Not the best scent. But beneath that, there’s a hint of something sweetly feminine, like sugar and vanilla. I draw it into my lungs and feel a stab of alarm because it’s going to my head—the smaller, greedy one. Not the way I want to think of my best girl. And if she notices my reaction, I’ll feel like a dirty perv. I ought to let her go. Take a step back.

But a sudden and not-altogether-unexpected shyness hits me. What if it isn’t like before? What if now that we’re face-to-face everything turns awkward? I’ve never had a close female friend. Never really wanted one.

Part of me doesn’t want to let her go because then we’ll have to talk, to look each other in the eye. Another part of me just wants to hold her because it feels so damn good. Perfect. But I can’t stand here forever. Eventually, she’ll want to be let down. Only she’s clinging to me too. Her long limbs wrapped up around mine. Maybe she’s just as nervous. The idea gives me the courage to ease my grip and let her slide down my length.

She doesn’t go far. She’s tall. Amazonian tall. I didn’t expect that. But I like it. I’m six foot six and two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle, which means girls are usually dwarfed by my size. I’m constantly having to bend down to so much as wrap an arm around them, let alone get a kiss. And fucking them? I worry about crushing some girls. Literally.