stuff anyway. It was an international flight, so he figured it would be another twenty minutes or so before she’d appear. Enough time to check his messages.
He tucked the sign under his arm and pulled out his smart phone, juggling it with the bouquet of flowers in his hand. He had left work early to drive to the airport, and he wanted to make sure that everyone got home. Then he set about methodically answering anything that required an immediate response. As he did so, he wandered a few steps to a large rectangular pillar, tucked the flowers and sign under his arm.
“Lilah? Lilah Evans?” a female voice called out from behind a few minutes later.
Justin held up a hand and quickly finished replying to a message. “I’m sorry. I just needed to send that.”
“Is that sign for Lilah Evans?”
A woman pointed to the words on his sign. A cascade of sun-streaked brown hair fell across her face, blocking her features.
“Can I help you?” he asked, bending over to address her eye to eye.
She stood up. The hair fell away. She indicated the sign again. “Did you mean Lilah Evans?”
His mouth opened. She looked very familiar, even though he didn’t recognize her immediately.
The Lilah Evans he remembered had that kind of fresh-faced milkmaid appeal—all rosy cheeks and rosy attitude to life—an apple dumpling with a heart of gold, to mix metaphors in a really, really awful way. She’d been rounded, maybe even a little pudgy, not that Justin ever complained about a few extra pounds. If anything, they only served to enhance her womanly appeal. Anyway, she’d always seemed supremely unaware of her own attractiveness. It hadn’t mattered if she had on a sweatshirt and had her hair pulled up and anchored by a pencil, or was wearing some slinky dress and high heels, the woman had invariably produced a catch in his throat even though she’d only thought of him as a friend. Was there anything worse?
Back in college, Lilah was his roommate’s girlfriend. That made her strictly off-limits.
And now? Now that same woman—who was not the same at all—was staring at him with a critical frown. She looked older. There were lines in her forehead and around her mouth, too, and she’d tucked a pair of reading glasses into the neckband of her drab olive T-shirt. Gone were the pillowy-soft curves, replaced by a delicate frame with sinewy muscles and minimal body fat. And instead of that wide-eyed, can-do outlook, she conveyed a weary, been-there-done-that air.
He cleared his throat. “Lilah? Is that really you?” He pointed between her name on the sign and herself in person.
“Well, yes, I’m Lilah Evans, spelled L-I-L-A-H, not L-I-L-L-A.” She hooked a thumb under the strap on her backpack. “You are waiting for the L-I-L-A-H version, right?”
He shrugged off a laugh. “I never could spell. And as to waiting for the L-I-L-A-H version? To tell you the truth, it seemed like I’ve been waiting for a large portion of my adult life.”
CHAPTER THREE
“OH, DON’T TELL ME.” Lilah covered her mouth before slowly dropping her hand. “Justin? Justin Bigelow? From college?” Her voice ended in a high squeak, the kind of girlie sound that Lilah hadn’t emitted since…well…since college.
“In the flesh,” he admitted sheepishly.
Though what he had to be ashamed about Lilah wasn’t quite sure. No, check that. If Justin’s behavior was still consistent with his days in college, he had a lot to apologize for. Which, Lilah reflected, had only made him that much more attractive.
What was it about bad boys? Lilah wondered. Every woman knew they were poison, but that didn’t stop them from wanting to take a bite out of the apple.
Back in college, Lilah had found Justin incredibly attractive. Maybe it was his cherubic blond curls that should have made him seem like Harpo Marx, but somehow they just turned up the sex-appeal quotient instead? Maybe it was the long, loose-limbed body, the kind that never seemed to put on a pound despite an enormous consumption of beer and pizza? But then, he had been a lightweight rower, Lilah reminded herself—all those calories burned away in killer practices. Or maybe it was the way he didn’t mind shooting the breeze with her in the dorm rooms he shared with Stephen. Or when Stephen was off editing the Daily Granthamite, the college newspaper, the way he listened to her worry that her Junior Paper wasn’t original enough, or about the interview she was sure she had messed up for a summer internship at the Guggenheim Museum. She hadn’t, he’d assured her, and sure enough she’d gotten the job.
She studied him now. Gone were the curls. Instead, his hair was close-cropped. He still appeared trim and fit, but he seemed to have lost the red-rimmed and bleary-eyed gaze of someone who burned the candle at both ends.
I guess even a party boy has to know when to quit sometime, she thought. But talk about parties! Much of the social life at Grantham University centered around social clubs, basically coed fraternities, each with its own personality. Stephen had belonged to Contract—the elitist club for political aspirants. Their parties involved a lot of sherry. Justin had joined Lion Inn, the ultimate jock hangout where beer was the beverage of choice. Lilah, on the other hand, had declined to rush any club, claiming the Grantham experience for her was more centered around her studies, her job in the art history library and her position on the board of the film society. But the truth was, she hadn’t gone that route because she’d been afraid she’d be turned down.
Anyway, Justin. There was never any doubt that he would join Lion Inn. Or that he would have just about every woman flocking after him. And since she was Justin’s roommate’s girlfriend, she was somehow supposed to know his every personal detail for all those other women to mine.
“Is it true he’s having an affair with the dean’s wife?” they’d ask.
To which she answered, “She’s old enough to be his mother—not that that would stop him.”
Then there was, “Does he really quote one particular sonnet by Shakespeare to all the women?”
“It may be the same one over and over, but can you beat, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”
Or her favorite: “Does he compose songs on his guitar for every woman he sleeps with?” To which she answered, “No one has a repertoire that big.”
But what they all really wanted to ask was, “Do you think he likes me?” “Does he want to go out with me?” “Does he want to sleep with me?”
Lilah didn’t worry whether Justin liked her. She wasn’t sure why, but she had always felt that he liked her in the no-pressure kind of way. As friends without benefits. Besides, she had Stephen.
Stephen. Just the thought of her ex-fiancé made her suddenly suspicious. She looked around but didn’t see him. Then she narrowed her eyes at Justin. “Someone we both know didn’t send you to get me, did he?”
“No, you can rest assured. I’m here on my own accord as your official welcoming party.”
“An official welcoming party that’s busy texting instead of keeping an eye out for me? That’s some kind of welcome.”
“This is New Jersey. Give me a break. Though in my defense, I wasn’t expecting you
