“I’m naming a new hero. Do you like Franco or Blake better?”
“I like any of ’em that aren’t flying pigs sending me letters.”
“Is that the Mississippian way of saying you’re getting back together with your ex, or do you mean Captain Catapult sent you a letter?”
She tore into the envelope. “No, and maybe. Yes, I mean. No, I’m not getting back together with Ron, even when pigs fly, which they do, because yes. Yes, Captain Catapult sent me a letter, and he says?—”
She gasped as she scanned the letter more closely. “Tara, that man says I owe him and his Wild Hogs squadron two thousand four hundred eighty-six dollars for dumping a pumpkin on their keg.”
“That can’t be right. The keg couldn’t be more than two hundred, tops. Maybe three if it was full of thegoodbeer.”
Her cheeks were on fire, the left from embarrassment, the right from indignation. “It was moonshine beer. Homemade. And he’s claiming I owe four hundred for the keg, plus two hundred for pumpkin cleanup, and the rest is to go for the ‘emotional trauma done to highly trained and irreplaceable members of the United States Air Force and their mascot, Gertrude.’ Does that man think I’m made of money? I don’t mind paying for my messes, but there’s no way on God’s green earth that keg was worth two thousand dollars. I got me half a mind to march right over there and give him what for.”
“Um, Kaci?” Tara made a strangled noise, as if she were emotionally constipated. Or possibly trying not to laugh. “That’s a love letter.”
She pulled the phone from her ear and looked at the black device on her desk. The cord was plugged in to the unit, and the unit was plugged in to the wall. “Did you just say this here’s alove letter?”
This time, there was no mistaking the laughter on the other end of the phone. “He’s flirting with you.”
“That’s a bunch of malarkey.” Why would the man flirt with her? He hadn’t liked her enough to keep kissing her the first night they met, and he definitely hadn’t liked her on Saturday.
Either time.
“Well, if he’s not flirting, he’s trying to push your buttons. Did he put a phone number on it?”
She skimmed the bottom of the page. “Yep.”
“Local area code?”
“No.”
“Bet you a brand-new slingshot he gave you his cell phone number.”
She was getting way too predictable if Tara was betting slingshots.
And life was getting way too weird if Captain Catapult had actually sent her his personal number.
Also, she had research papers to get through, data to analyze in her lab, and a plane ticket to buy for her trip to Germany.
Her heart dipped, her toes tingled, and her chest constricted at the thought of flying.
Which was somethinghemust do all the time, being in a flying squadron and all.
“I’ll call you right back,” she said.
She hung up with Tara and dialed the number.
After five rings, it went to voicemail.
“This is Lance,” his voice said, causing an irrepressible shiver that started in her core and flung itself out to her fingertips. Tarawas right. He’d written her a letter so he could give her his phone number. And he soundedgoodwhen there wasn’t a sneer in his voice. Friendly. Encouraging. Sexy. “Leave a message.”
The phone beeped in her ear, and her mouth engaged, but her brain didn’t. “Afternoon, Captain Wheeler. I got your bill, and like I just told my ex-husband, I’m off men. So if you’re looking to start a fight, you’re gonna have to pick another rock to look under. Toodle-oo!”
She slammed the phone down.
Then she slammed her head on her desk. “P equals V-R-T,” she recited. “E equals M-C squared. The speed of light is three times ten to the eighth power meters per second, and the average velocity of an unladen swallow is twenty-four miles an hour.”
It was a dang good thing her brain still worked for physics. Because it obviously didn’t work for anything else.
