Page 10 of Take Me Back
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You stole my name.”
I’ve been through immigration in over a dozen countries, but it’s the first time someone’s said something like that to me. Then I take in the nametag on his shirt. CROSS.
Oh.“So you’re Mr. Cross too?”
“I could be your Mr. Cross,” he says, his eyebrows lifting suggestively.
“I’m pretty sure this one still wants me.” I force a laugh to cover the uncertainty of my statement.
When Dane doesn’t comment or even throw an arm around me, the tiny shreds of hope I’m holding on to fade away.
The immigration officer grabs his stamp and brings it down hard on my passport like a judge with a gavel.
The verdict?Ten days isn’t enough time to fix this.
“You can always stay in Belize with me if he changes his mind.” He winks, and Dane still says nothing.
The fact that I’m fighting tears in the immigration line is ridiculous, but that doesn’t make it not true.
The officer swipes and stamps Dane’s passport, but doesn’t give them back. Instead, he glances down at our arrival documents.
“Where are you going?”
I can’t answer the question because I have no clue. I should have read the paper before stuffing it in my passport.
“Sweet Water Caye,” Dane replies for us both.
The immigration officer’s eyebrows go up. “That’s a small place. Not too busy right now with low season. Pretty, though. Isolated.”
“That’s exactly what we need.” Dane finally wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me against his side. “No distractions.”
I want to cheer at the gesture of possession and believe he means that he wants me all to himself, but I’m afraid it’s a jab at my constantly working.
The officer nods. “I can see the appeal. Enjoy Belize.”
He slides our passports through the opening in the glass, and Dane drops his arm to retrieve them just as quickly.
It’s like he can barely stand to touch me.
Following behind him, I walk past the crowd gathering at the baggage claim toward theNOTHINGTODECLAREcustoms sign. Dane’s broad shoulders are stiff, and not due to his excellent military posture.
The customs officer barely glances at our papers before waving us on.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes before our next flight,” he says.
“Next flight?”
“Didn’t read the itinerary?”
More guilt twines its way into the knots in my belly. “Not in detail.” It’s a lie. I didn’t even realize he sent one because I was trying to wrap up so many loose ends before I stepped away for ten days.
Dane finally shoots me a frustrated look. “Probably because I didn’t send one. I knew you wouldn’t bother to open it if I did.”
Crap. If that was a test, I failed.
His strides lengthen and I squeeze my eyes shut, wondering if there’s any point in continuing forward.
