Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

When I only stand there staring at him like a lunatic, he
says, “You dropped your oven mitts.”
It’s true. My cheery red Santa-and-reindeer Christmas
mitts lie discarded on the threshold between us, dropped in my
shock at seeing him.
At least I didn’t swallow my tongue.
Before I can recover from my surprise, he leans down,
sweeps up the mitts in one of his big paws, and straightens.
But he doesn’t give them back to me. He stands holding them
like they’re a prized possession and he’ll only hand them over
for a steep price.
“You’re back. I mean, you’re here. What’re you doing
here?”
Not exactly neighborly, but I thought I’d never see him
again. I thought I’d never have to deal with the hysterically
shrieking hormones his presence always ignites.
Gazing at me steadily, he says, “I had business in Vegas.
Thought I’d drop by and say hello. I just got in.”
“Drop by? Vegas is an eight-hour drive from here.”
“I flew.”
“Oh. I thought I just heard on the news that they stopped
all the flights into Reno-Tahoe International due to bad
weather?”
“They did. Just not mine.”
He looks at me with such intensity, my heartrate
skyrockets. “Why not yours?”
“I was flying the plane. I ignored the call to reroute.”
I blink at him. “You’re a pilot?”
“Yes.”
“You said you were a debt collector.”
“I am.”
“This is confusing.”