The truth is…IwantGeorge to like me.
The urge—probably—has nothing to do with me suddenly finding myself secretly horny for the man and everything to do with the fact that I am terrible at being disliked. I don’t know how to deal with it. Don’t know how to act around someone who’s found fault in me even if I’m not a fan of them, either. Making someone unhappy simply by being in their presence is as uncomfortable as working an eight-hour shift in a soaking-wet uniform—which I had to do a month ago when a three-year-old threw a full cup of water at me.
That was a personal hell, but being disliked is still worse.
“Get whatever your heart desires,” Shawn offers his friend. “My treat.” He turns to loudly whisper to me. “They’ve grounded him after what happened yesterday.”
“What?” I gape between the two men.
George’s lips tighten, and a redness infuses his cheeks.
“Temporarily,” the pilot clarifies.
“Still…” Why would anyone ground him? What he did yesterday was amazing. The skill to handle that plane with a cool head when everything was going wrong was impressive. Every part of me—other than my vagina—resents the guy, and even I can admit that.
“Hold up one second. You’re the man who almost crashed a plane with our Beth inside?” Sam leaves off filling the napkin holders and strides toward us, her face thunderous.
Sam in a temper. Now there’s a sight I’ve rarely seen. The middle-aged woman usually lets her children handle the angry outbursts. I think I saw her yell once, and that’s when a customer left their dog in their car when they came in to eat. It was a ninety-degree day out.
As a proud dog mom to three rescue mutts, Sam has no patience for animal neglect.
But I’m not a Yorkie left to bake in the sun, so what’s up?
George drags a rough palm over his cropped hair, then nods.
My boss looks ready to commit murder. It’s kind of sweet.
“I am,” George admits.
“And what risky nonsense were you doing up there that had you almost crashing?” Sam crosses her arms over her ample chest and glares at the pilot. “Flips? Nosedives? Trying to break the sound barrier?”
Cessna 172s aren’t really fast, and I don’t think they’re built for aerobatics, but I don’t bother to correct the normally mild-mannered Cornfield.
“It was engine failure,” George explains in a matter-of-fact voice with no trace of defensiveness. “One of the cylinders threw a rod.”
Sam loses a touch of heat. “How does that happen?”
“It typically occurs when the engine was not overhauled correctly by the mechanic.”
“Are you the mechanic?”
George continues to frown. “I have aviation mechanic experience.”
“But,” Sam presses, “wereyouthe one who did the overhaul? The one that made the cylinder go wonky?”
The pilot hesitates for a stretch before answering. “No.”
“Well.” All the heat from Sam’s expression evaporates as quickly as it appeared. Her smile is wide and stunning. “That sounds like you didn’t do anything wrong.”
George keeps quiet, but I get the odd sense he doesn’t agree.
“In fact,” Sam continues, voice rising, a grin growing, “sounds like you did everything you could. You saved Beth! You’re a hero!”
George looks horrified. “I’m not.”
But it’s too late. The diner owner is already dragging George off his stool to wrap him in a hard hug. The sight has me fighting another laugh, because Mrs.Cornfield is a tall, broad woman, and she can crush bones with her affection if she has a mind to.
“You eat free today.” Sam lets George go only to clasp his shoulders in a final squeeze. “Anything you want. Don’t forget the pie. Darla makes them, and she’s a wizard at getting the flaky crust just right.”
