A beat of silence as her words register, and George’s eyes widen in a shock that I share.
“Riann!” I whip my head toward her—away from George’s very close face. Then I hop off the stool in protest, but also because my body was on board for her suggestion and about to follow through before my brain wrestled back control.
“Please?” she’s giving me big brown eyes again, but I will not be swayed. “The story is so much juicier if it ends with a romance. Give the people what they want!”
“Riann, I am not making out with a guy to give high schoolerswhat they want.” Using air quotes around the last three words, I try to use a stern tone, but it comes out more like an exasperated groan. “Good reporters do not manipulate stories to make them more interesting. You report the facts.”
She pouts. “Ugh. Fine. No romance angle.” She swipes through her phone, reviewing the pictures she took as she retreats to the booth to grab her backpack. “My dad is here. And you’re not allowed to be mad at me for suggesting that you two kiss because it was Sally’s idea. Bye!” Riann sprints out of the restaurant, leaving a thick air of awkwardness in her wake and the suspicious sound of chuckling from the direction of the kitchen.
George clears his throat, and I decide looking only at his chin is a good idea. Better than meeting eyes most likely full of horror or staring at the mouth it was suggested I kiss.
“So, uh, flying. In two days.” He clears his throat again. “Would you like to come? With me?”
In more ways than one.
“Yes,” I croak. Then the door bell rings, and I don’t even care that literally a horde of teenagers spills in through the entrance becausethey all pile into two booths in my section. Perfect excuse to eject myself from this mortifying situation. “Gotta get to work.”
By the time I finish taking their orders, George is gone. The only evidence he was here is the empty coffee mug, a four hundred percent tip on the two-dollar check, and a tingling flush that covers every inch of my skin.
Chapter
13
When I pullinto the airport parking lot, I spy George waiting by a car, conversing with someone through the window. I wonder if it’s another club member. I hope it’s not Vernon.
George was stingy with information about this outing, but because I’m slightly desperate for flying time, I decided not to press him. But if I end up stuck in close quarters with a guy who refers to me as a “pretty view,” I’m not going to be a happy camper.
“Beth.” George straightens when he spots me and strides my way, his long legs eating up the asphalt. Damn the makers of his jeans, because they formed that denim perfectly to give a hint of the muscles beneath. The guy has good thigh game. I can still recall the heat of them on either side of my hips as we posed for that picture showing off The Bunsen. That was almost as hot as his cinnamon breath brushing over my lips when he leaned in close for the newspaper picture…
Stop! No more thinking about George’s heat.
And I am officially done with photo shoots forever.
“George,” I greet him, proud that my voice doesn’t go breathy andbetray my dirty-skewing thoughts. He comes to a stop in front of me, close enough that I have to stare upward to meet his eyes.
Or, more accurately, point my gas station aviator sunglasses at his designer aviator sunglasses. I got mine for five dollars. I bet his cost more than my last paycheck.
Well, the joke is on him because our eyewear looks exactly the same.
Except for the fact that his are perched on a chiseled nose and cast shadows on wickedly sharp cheekbones.
I realize I’ve been staring at him in all his sunglass glory for longer than is socially acceptable. To be fair, he’s stared just as long, and I was the last to speak, so I blame him for this standoff.
He breaks our sunglass showdown to glance over his shoulder and lifts a hand to wave at the car he just left behind.
“Are you ready for her?” a friendly voice calls out, and I peer around George to spy a gray-haired white woman climbing out from behind the wheel.
“We’re ready,” George says loudly enough to carry across the parking lot.
The woman pops open the door to her back seat. When I see what’s inside, I gasp.
“Is that…?”
“Yeah.” George turns, standing shoulder to shoulder with me.
The woman smiles wide and tugs on a leash that is attached to the collar of an adorable puppy. The Lab mix has long, gangly legs and floppy ears and moves like she still hasn’t figured out how her body works, tripping over her own paws as she jumps out of the SUV. The dog’s tail wags faster than the plane propeller, and she lets out an excited yip in greeting.
“You okay with this?”
