Chapter 17

He couldn’t have been a better example of “my type” if I had built him myself from a kit. Strikingly tall and rail-thin, I couldn’t tear my eyes off him as he strode up to the window, flourishing his passport. He made a crack at the no-neck passport control officer that actually got a laugh (a first in the history of the Border Patrol, as far as I can tell), bellowed goodbye to his crew, then stalked off into the baggage claim area and out of my life. I actually felt kind of wronged watching him walk away. In fifteen seconds, I had so thoroughly fantasized what it would be like to see him across the breakfast table after waking up next to him every morning that I couldn’t believe he would walk out on the good thing we had going.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Bobby whined.

“Yes, I am,” I assured him, not turning around.

“What did I just say?”

“Um…something about France?”

“Get a hold of yourself,” he scolded. “He wasn’t that hot.”