Fortune's Cinderella. Karen Templeton

Close by, something periodically scraped against the wall on the far side of what used to be the snack bar.

      Scott cleared his throat. “I think we need to keep talking—”

      “Yeah, I think you’re right. Absolutely.” Then she yawned. “If I can stay awake. I think the adrenaline’s gone.”

      “You comfortable?”

      “I’ve been better. Been worse, too.”

      He pulled her close again. “Lay your head on my chest.”

      “I couldn’t—”

      “One, you already have. And two, I cannot tell you how little I’m in the mood for arguments right now. And I’m cold, too. So just do it, dammit.”

      All righty, then. Although, even before her cheek made contact with his soft, soft sweater—and the hard, hard muscles underneath, Christina knew she was doomed.

      Whether they made it out alive or not.

      Scott couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a woman close—one not related to him, that is—with no ulterior motive in mind. Or when doing so had provoked such mind-blowing feelings of … tenderness. Especially when, with a long sigh, Christina relaxed against him.

      “Better?”

      “Yes, actually.” She lightly rubbed his chest. Probably not the best move. “What is this stuff? Cashmere?”

      “Silk and lambswool. Wendy gave it to me for Christmas.”

      Her hand once more fisted near her chin, she said, “Gal’s got good taste.”

      “That she does.” Fingering her shoulder, he asked, “So tell me—who is Christina Hastings when she’s not pawning off lousy coffee in an airport?”

      A little laugh preceded, “You tasted it, then?”

      “Unfortunately, yes. Well? What are your dreams?”

      “Now why on earth would you be interested in my dreams?”

      “Would you rather talk about sports? Politics?”

      “God, no.”

      “Good. Because neither would I.” He paused, then added, “I don’t make small talk, Christina. Or ask questions I don’t really want answers to. And we agreed we need to keep talking—”

      “Okay, fine. Short term or long term?”

      “Either. Both.”

      “Well, first, to finish getting my business degree. Although I’ve been working on that one for some time already. I didn’t … I got sidetracked after I finished high school, so I didn’t start college until I was twenty-one. And even then I’ve always had to work while going to school, so I’ve only been able to take a couple courses a semester. I’m definitely a tortoise and not a hare.”

      “Nothing wrong with that. But there’s no one to help you out?”

      “Not really, no. Although I’m hoping to finish up in the next year or so. And after that—way after that, most likely—I’d like to have my own business.”

      “Doing what?”

      “You don’t—”

      “Christina. Captive audience. Go for it.”

      A moment passed before she said, “I’ve got a couple of ideas, although nothing’s set in stone. But I’m good with animals, so I thought maybe a pet grooming shop. Or one of those spas where people could leave their pets for me to spoil while they go on vacation? Although that would mean owning someplace large enough to do that, so that’s definitely on the ‘someday’ list … oh, it’s silly, isn’t it?”

      “Now why would you say that?”

      “Because … I don’t know. My plans must seem like small potatoes to somebody like you.”

      “One, you are not allowed to sell yourself short. Two, all businesses start with a seed. An idea. Feed that idea with focus and determination and it will grow.”

      “And sufficient start-up capital,” she said with a sigh.

      “Somebody’s done her homework. I’m impressed.”

      “Homework, I can do. Finding money lying around under rocks, not so much.”

      He smiled. “If the idea is good, the financing will fall into place.”

      “So would you finance my start-up?”

      “Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”

      “So would you?”

      Scott chuckled. And got a sweet whiff of what was left of her perfume or hair stuff or whatever it was. “Show me a well-thought-out business plan and we’ll talk.”

      “You’re not just saying that because you’re figuring we’re gonna die here and then you’ll be off the hook?”

      “We’re not going to die, Christina.”

      She snuggled closer, her arm banding his ribs as she whispered, “Do you know I’ve never told another living soul about this?”

      “Not even your mother?”

      “Especially not my mother.” She paused. “Since she’s shot down everything I’ve ever tried. Or ever wanted to do. Not exactly a big cheerleader.”

      “That’s rough.”

      “Eh,” she said on a shrug, “it taught me early on to be self-reliant. ‘Course, that doesn’t make an ideal mate, either. Prob’ly why I haven’t been on a date in, oh … two years?”

      Gal was definitely getting tired, Scott thought with a weary smile of his own. Inhibitions shattered and all that.

      “Two years? Really?”

      “Yep.” She yawned. “Got tired of the stupid games. Of meeting a guy and thinking he’s nice, only to find out he automatically expects something in return for taking me out to dinner. That he’s not even remotely interested in getting to know me as a person. Sucked.”

      Bitterness, dulled and worn, veneered her words. And provoked him into defending his sex. “Not all men are like that.”

      “Then maybe I’m just lousy at picking ’em,” she said, her accent getting heavier the sleepier she got. “But you know? I’m okay with being on my own. It’s kinda nice, being able to make my own decisions about what’s best for me without having to swing ’em past anybody else.” This last bit was accentuated with a sweeping arm gesture before she snuggled closer, rubbing her cheek against his chest. Damn.

      “You’re awfully young to be so cynical,” he said into her dusty hair.

      She shrugged, clearly unperturbed. “Better than havin’ my head in the clouds.”

      She yawned again, one of those double yawns that signified that sleep couldn’t be far behind. Yet despite her soft voice, her words were clear. “I’m a realist, Scott. I know who I am. Where I came from. Maybe not exactly where I’m going, but close enough. What’s in my control and what’s not. Like … if I never get married, maybe I’ll … adopt someday.” She hmmphed tiredly. “Never told anybody that, either.”

      And the longer she talked, the more her honesty seemed to wrap around his soul, nourishing something inside him he hadn’t even known was hungry. “Were you always this wise? Or has experience made you this way?”

      “Hell if I know,” she said, and he laughed. “But I am a real firm believer in being true to yourself. In knowing who you are and what you want, and then doing your best to make those two things work together. Long as you understand the road between points A and Z might not always be a smooth one.”

      At that,