“You didn’t buckle up. I want my baby to be safe,” he said. I was always bad about buckling up. I dug into the leather seat to find the buckle, reaching the two sides to click together, but not quite making it. In one week I couldn’t have gotten that fat.

“Either I’ve gained weight, or someone very skinny was in the passenger seat recently.”

“What are you talking about?” He frowned, looking at the two parts of the seat belt not quite meeting across my jeans.

“A passenger recently pulled this seat belt very tight.” I waved the two stubby ends of the belt. “What gives? Who’s the skinny hottie you’ve been driving around town while I’ve been away on business?”

“Yeah, right,” he sneered. “I just had the car detailed this week— you know how they move things around.” Dave reached across the bench seat and gave my knee a squeeze. “You’re the only baby I drive around. You know that.”

The car did smell of Armor All and glistened from a recent wax. Funny.

We had a good story. I’d been waiting at the bar at LAX for a weekend flight home to Arizona. My original flight had been canceled and I had time to kill until the next one. Dave was sitting two seats away from me having a beer, awaiting his flight. I’d noticed him right away because he was hot. Not in a metrosexual way, or the way my girlfriends all thought of as hot. His hair was dark and slightly overgrown, with long bangs that I watched him push off his face.

I judged him to be around thirty-two or thirty-three. He wasn’t that well put together: sneakers, jeans, and baggy leather coat. But that was cool. I never liked a guy to spend more time getting ready than I did.

Looking at him, I was glad that I’d put on my good-butt jeans before heading to the airport. Halfway through my Amstel Light, I kept my eyes straight ahead and waited to see if he would make his move. I didn’t have to wait long. I could feel the movement of air next to my barstool; someone was inching in. I glanced to my left and saw Cute Guy placing his computer bag on the bar and signaling to the bartender for another beer. The bartender called back to him, “We’ll make it a large for a dollar more.”

Cute Guy answered, “Sure.”

Not bad. It was only 5 PM and he was on the large beer—my kind of guy. A few minutes went by as I tried to appear engrossed in my

Jackie Collins novel. He silently sipped his beer next to me.

“Excuse me.”

I turned to face Cute Guy. Looking directly at him, I felt a bit like I’d been punched in the stomach.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I said cautiously.