One.

Ivy.

Most people hate the airport. I get that. You're in a hurry, hauling around luggage, maybe afraid to fly, definitely annoyed by the heinous TSA lines. And yet, for me, there's an air of excitement to an airport. At least as a traveler. Because either you're going somewhere or you've arrived. For that alone, I'd love the airport. But my absolute favorite spot? The international arrivals gate.

I love those gates. Love watching the people who wait with an almost nervous antic.i.p.ation for their loved ones to arrive. Love seeing faces light up, people cry out with joy and laughter or even tears when they spot that special person. Mothers, father, sisters, brothers, friends, lovers... An endless stream of reunions.

In the years after my parents got divorced, I used to go to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. Here, at least, I could see the good side of love.

I'm here again, at the arrivals gate. Only this time, I'm the one arriving. And there's no one here to great me. No sister. No dad.

After being in a plane for nearly eight hours, my eyes are gritty, my knees ache from being crammed into a too-small s.p.a.ce, and I probably stink. It's hard to tell; my fellow travelers kind of stink too, making us one big, moving, bleary-eyed unit of airplane funk. Or we were. Now people are picked off one by one as open arms embrace them. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, trying hard not to be disappointed when I don't see one.

Too soon it becomes obvious that I've been forgotten. The crowd thins, and what remains are the people waiting for the next wave of pa.s.sengers to be cleared through customs.

Clutching the handles of my ma.s.sive rolling suitcases, I lumber over to an empty seat and make myself comfortable. My phone is out of juice and is a useless black screen.

"f.u.c.k," I mumble, blinking hard before running a hand over my face. I want to wonder why my dad or sister isn't here, but if I do, I might cry. And I'm not crying here.

I shouldn't be surprised. Being Sean Mackenzie's daughter means waiting until clients are appeased, crises are averted, and deals are hammered out in ironclad contracts. Given that my dad is one of the top sports agents in the country, there's almost never an empty moment left for me. But you'd think the infamous Big Mac, as the sports world dubs him, would remember to pick me up. Or, at the very least, ask my sister, Fiona, to get me.

They're just late. They were tied up in traffic. You've been gone for a year. They wouldn't miss your homecoming.

In a minute, I'll get up and search for an outlet to charge the phone and then call Dad. Right now, I don't want to move. I've sat for hours, and I'm suddenly too weak to do anything but slump in a chair. Worse, without the phone, I cannot appear busy, as if I'm intentionally sitting on my own. I can't scroll through my screen and check Facebook while pretending it's important business. I can't text Gray, which is ironic since I've purposely not texted to tell him I'm here, wanting to surprise him instead. I can only sit in perfect silence as the world moves past me.

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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sengers 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-gla.s.s 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.

G.o.d, but the way he moves-fast water over smooth stones. People stop and stare as he goes by. How could they not? Ma.s.sive, 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 s.h.i.t," 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, G.o.d, 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. .h.i.ts 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 d.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.king them? I worry about crushing some girls. Literally.

But Mac? She's got to be around six feet tall. The top of her head fits nicely under my chin. And though she's nowhere near fat, she's not a twig either. Just long limbs and soft, sweet curves.

s.h.i.t. I'm ogling her. I take another step back and meet her eyes. I can't help but smile. I'm so f.u.c.king happy to see her, it's a little scary.

"I'm sorry I didn't recognize you," I tell her, still nervous. "You look...different from the picture your dad has on his desk." It's the only one I'd seen of her.

Mac's blunt little nose wrinkles in disgust. "G.o.d, not that one of me at fifteen?"

"Pretty sure that's the one." I'm trying not to laugh, but it's hard and she sees it.

Her scowl grows. "That's a horrible picture. I'm going to kill Dad for leaving it out in the open."

I don't blame her. She was a round-faced, braces wearing teen in that picture. In my mind, I'd still viewed her that way: chubby cheeks, b.u.t.ton nose, big brown eyes.

The reality is different. Her eyes are still big and brown beneath almost straight brows, but the baby fat is gone. Her cheeks are high and defined, her jaw a smooth curve. And, no, I didn't think she'd still have straggly hair pulled back tight in a barrette. Or maybe I did-but it's not straggly or pulled back.

Her glossy dark brown hair is cut fairly short, coming to rest just above her shoulders, with a strong sweep of bangs over those eyes of hers. I gravitate toward women who wear their hair long and flowing, but Mac's cut is kind of sixties retro.

My girl, I realize, is hot. Not obvious, s.e.x-kitten hot, but girl-next-door, I-gotta-know-what-she's-hiding-under-that-shirt kind of hot.

No. Not going there. I'm just proud, is all. Mac won't lack for attention. Frowning, I bend down to take hold of her luggage. "Let's get you home."

We fall into an easy pace, her long legs keeping time with mine, which is so novel to me that I find myself relaxing into my natural stride, not the shortened steps I usually take around women.

I can't seem to stop looking at her. It's weird, every line and curve of her is utterly new to me and yet familiar in some bone-deep way. It makes me think of amicable numbers, each one capable of summing up the other.

f.u.c.k, this girl is already turning me into an emotional sap. But it doesn't make me any less happy.

"Your dad sends his apologies."

"I just bet," she mutters, hurt and anger simmering beneath the surface. And I feel like s.h.i.t for her, and more than a little p.i.s.sed at Big Mac for putting that hurt in her eyes.

"He was stuck-"

"Taking care of a client," she finishes for me with a wave of her hand. "I know." A small sigh leaves her. "I'm used to it, believe me."

I do. Doesn't make it any better, though. It makes me even more p.i.s.sed off at her dad.

"I'd have been here on time, but ah..." h.e.l.l, I don't want to tell her that I'd only just gotten the call to pick her up. But she figures this out on her own, and her mouth tilts in a smirk.

"So I'm guessing he hit up Fiona. Only Fi was out, so he begged you." Her brows draw together. "What's Fi's excuse, do you know?"

"Puking her guts out, apparently. He said she has the flu."

"Oh." Mac's annoyance visibly deflates. "Poor Fi."

I haven't met Mac's younger sister. I know she goes to a local all-girls college, where I'd trolled for chicks during my freshman and soph.o.m.ore years. But I'm not telling Mac that. She already gives me grief for being a "man s.l.u.t." Stupid term. Personally, I prefer "equal-opportunity f.u.c.k master." Again, not telling Mac that.

"You don't mind, do you?" I ask as we make our way out into the bright sunshine. Fresh air mixing with jet and bus fumes a.s.saults my lungs. "Me picking you up?"

"No," she says quickly, maybe too quickly. "Why would I mind?"

I shrug, side-stepping a business woman booking it into the terminal. "You didn't tell me you were coming home." Until the words are out of my mouth, I don't think I'd realized how much that stings.

It's worse when she grimaces. "Yeah, I know..." She stares down at her red Chucks as she walks. "I should have told you. I just..."

"Ivy," I warn, saying her real name for the first time. It's intimate in some strange way, and I don't know how I feel about that.

"Okay, okay," she hurries on, "it was s.h.i.tty. I just. f.u.c.k it." She glances at me and there's steel in that look, as if she's bracing herself. "I wanted to, of course I did. I planned to surprise you tomorrow. But, I dunno, I was afraid too. What if it got all-"

"Awkward." I start to smile, and my step grows lighter, especially when she smiles back at me, her apple cheeks going rosy.

"You worried too?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, what if you didn't like me in person? We've been so close..." I trail off, strangled by my own discomfort. And now it's f.u.c.king awkward. Brilliant.

She solves this by slinging an arm around my waist and giving me a squeeze. The action sends warmth straight through my veins, and I find myself leaning into her embrace.

"I'm glad you're here, Gray." Her fingers press into my side. "Really glad."

I've just officially met Ivy Mackenzie, and I realize I've missed her for what seems like years. "Me too."

Two.

Ivy

Even though it's my car, I ask Gray to drive. And, shockingly, he doesn't simply accept that as his manly due. "You sure?" He dangles the keys off the tip of his long finger as if waiting for me to s.n.a.t.c.h them up.

"I'm liable to drive us off the road right now. Chauffeur me, sir."

"Well, then." He unlocks the door for me and opens it with a sweeping gesture. "Your pink chariot awaits, madam."

Ah, my little pink Fiat. I've missed her. Gray hates the car, and I get that. He's way too big for it, proven by the way the seat has been rolled back as far as it can go and yet he still has to cram himself behind the wheel while muttering curses.

For weeks I've tried to envision Gray driving this car. Nothing does the reality justice. His hard-packed muscles bunch and twitch, his wide shoulders hunch, and his long legs bend awkwardly. The steering wheel looks delicate under his big hands.

"Oh, this is so awesome," I say, barely holding in my snickering.

Gray turns to glare at me, but his blue eyes are smiling. "This is why you wanted me to drive, isn't it?"

"Partially. You just look so cute." I give his cheek a tweak.

He bats my hand away with a short laugh. "Little punk. I swear to G.o.d, I'm gonna find a way to get you back."

"I'm terrified. Truly."

We're soon driving down the highway. Despite Gray's cramped position, he maneuvers the car with ease. I can imagine him on the field, those quick reflexes of his working in perfect tandem with his body. It must be a beautiful sight. I've wanted to view footage of his games, but just as I've feared seeing his picture, so have I feared watching him play. Some part of me didn't want to know. I might have become too shy, too enamored of his talent if I knew those things.

I roll the window down a bit, and cold, asphalt-tinged air blows in. "I've missed the scent of America."