George stands off to the side enough that he’s not in danger of oncoming vehicles. His forehead is wrinkled above a set of aviator sunglasses he slipped on, and he has his phone pressed to his ear, exchanging tense words with whoever is on the other end of the line.
All this he does while facing me. Despite the shades, I can tell his eyes are on me. Paying me more attention than he ever has before this day. Probably working out how the engine failure was my fault.
He’s notthatmuch of an asshole.
But even if he is, my libido doesn’t care. The endorphins-drenched part of my brain is already crafting scenarios of George storming up to me, growling my name, then taking me in a passionate embrace and kissing me senseless.
What in the ever-loving hell is wrong with me?
I just survived a near-death experience, and I’m thinking about making out? With George Bunsen?!
The guy thinks I’m an annoying bother at best and an embarrassment that never should’ve been born at worst.
I hate—intensely dislike—him.
At the start of this flight, all I longed for was a way to go up in the air every day. My worries revolved around my mom’s health and my looming debt. A brush with mortality is supposed to make a person reevaluate their life priorities, not want to bang the closest ill-tempered asshole!
I cannot have lived through that harrowing experience only to develop a crush on George Bunsen. Turning my back on the disconcerting pilot, I decide not to look at the man again until my body remembers that as much as he dislikes me, I’ve decided to loathe him more.
This random horniness will pass.
I’m sure of it.
Chapter
2
Dear Beth,
What you went through yesterday must have been terrifying. I’m so glad you’re okay. This close call really got me thinking about the future. The future of us. Why don’t we get dinner soon? Pick the place and the time, and tell me to meet you there.
Sincerely,
Billy
PS: Please don’t mention this note. I’m shy.
I reread the handwritten message that was stuck under the plate of eggs for booth five and try not to laugh. This is both horrible and entirely too good.
Exactly what I needed today.
After stuffing the letter in my pocket, I serve lunch to the table in the back corner with a smile that comes easier now that I have something to laugh about.
As a waitress, I know the importance of maintaining a constant cheery face. No matter what. No matter if my new shoes have rubbed a stinging blister on the back of my heel, or if I’m having demon cramps because my satanic uterus is once again mad that I didn’t put a baby in it, or if I survived a near-death experience less than twenty-four hours ago.
No smile means no tips, so paste on your happy face until your cheeks hurt.
“Oh, Beth dear. How are you?” Mrs.McGuire stares up at me with round eyes behind her bejeweled glasses. “Are you traumatized? I saw the report about the crash on the evening news. I can’t believe you didn’t die!” She gasps out the last line even as her eyes give off a delighted sparkle. I suspect Mrs.McGuire would have found a perverse joy in my death if only it meant the gossip was juicier.
“I’m glad I lived through it, too, but it wasn’t a crash.” My pleasant expression stays firmly in place. “The pilot was able to land the plane.”
And damn, did he do that with a level of calm and skill I still cannot fathom.
My mind replays the final few moments of the flight on a nonstop loop in my head.
The unwavering stern note of George’s voice. The steady grip of his hands on the controls.
The way he spoke to the plane…
