My hands tremble a little as I hand my passport to the customs agent.
I wish I wasn’t still feeling so nervous. I landed. I got my luggage. I’m on time. I’ll find my coworkers in just a few minutes.
But my body doesn’t seem to accept that. And with the amount of sweat trickling down my back, I won’t be surprised if I get detained for suspicious activity.
“What brings you to Mexico?” the man behind the desk asks.
“Work,” I croak.
He lifts a brow, holding my passport up so he can look at the photo and then back at me.
He does this for several seconds.
The pressure is too much.
I lift my hands and fan my face, the summer heat permeating the indoors. “Sorry.” I keep fanning myself. “I don’t like flying alone, and I’m stressed out and hot, but I promise I’m just here for work.”
The man stares at me for another beat before he smirks and hands the passport back to me. “You’re good, Ms. Cantrell. Welcome to Mexico.”
My entire body sags in relief, and the man’s smile grows into a grin.
If I wasn’t so obsessed with my growly big-dicked neighbor, I might ask this guy for his number.
“Thank you.” I slip the passport into an interior pocket in my backpack, then zip it up, making sure there’s no way for it to fall out or for someone with skilled fingers to lift it. “Thank you,” I say again, then drag my suitcase—with my backpack attached to the handle—away.
It doesn’t take long before I spot a group of people I recognize standing next to the sign for transportation. It makes me feel a little better, but there’s a part of me that wishes Hans could’ve come with me. I still barely know him, but his don’t fuck with me attitude just makes me feel safe.
I square my shoulders and plaster a smile on my face.
I’ll see him soon enough. Time to face reality.
