“But not a year, right?”
“Not a year,” I agree.
“What about like… October? Warm-ish but not like ‘ahhhh, I’m melting.’”
October?There’s not a hint of joking on his face. “That’s three months from now.” I’m thinking more like February or March. At least six months if not a little more. He can’t possibly think we can get it sorted out in such a short amount of time? I’m not a fan of the entire dog-and-pony show, but even I know that it takes longer than that. There are too many superfluous stupid details that matter more than they should that have to be sorted out.
“It’s actually three and ahalfmonths.”
Christ, he’s serious. “You want to get married in three months?”
He slides forward, crowding me, a knee lifting to hook properly over my hip. “Grady, I want to get married tomorrow.”
Fuck, I want that too. If I didn’t think he’d end up disappointed that he didn’t have a ceremony as well as robbing his family of it, I’d take him up on it. The wedding itself is never just about the groom and groom.
“We can’t get married tomorrow.” I say that as much for me as for him. He doesn’t need to know that. If he thinks for a second that I’m on the edge, he’ll push until we find ourselves married and having to apologise to everyone.
“So… October?”
I should say no. It’s not enough time. How will we get ready in time? “We can’t—” The earnest look on his face is impossible to say no to. “We’d need to keep it simple, and small.”
“That sounds perfect. I don’t need flashy.”
“Your entire being is flashy,” I say with a laugh.
“Then we won’t need extra, will we? I can bring it all myself, and the rest can just wish they were sparkling as bright as me.”
With a deep sigh, I kiss him again. “Alright,” I murmur before diving back in. “October.”
“We need to pick an actual da—” Lake cuts off when I cover his mouth. We picked a month. The specific date can wait; I have better plans for this man who turns me inside out.
Chapter three
Lake
Hummingtomyselfwhileflying is how I get through the audacity of not being able to put headphones on and sing to Beyoncé while I’m several—more than several—feet in the air. The three-hour debate with my CO hadn’t changed her mind, which I claimed was an unethical use of her status because my argument wason point.
She’d kicked me out of her office with the threat of putting a boot up my ass. So touchy. My PowerPoint and fully illustrated poster boards were more than enough evidence that I can fly just fine while pitching my voice at decibels it wasn’t designed to go.
Not even the moaning behind me is enough to make up for the tragic lack of dance tunes. Enjoyable though. Taking recruits upto the Blue Mountains is one of my favourite activities. There’s nothing scarier than one’s first time rappelling from a helicopter into a copse of trees. They’re never safer than when they’re in an aircraft with me. Buttheydon’t know that.
I share a sneaky look with my copilot for the day, Lieutenant James Anson, before nosediving and turning sharply in a full three-sixty circle. A thrill similar to having sex with Grady erupts in my stomach. I love my job.
Someone actuallyyipsinto their headset, which is both ouch but also totally worth the ear-piercing pain. They’ll learn. Eventually, they’ll do that with the doors open and not even blink. It’s important to stay strapped in until told otherwise when doing operations like that.
“That wasn’t me,” a voice is quick to pipe up.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” someone else mumbles. I’m so glad that I made them all put on headsets. Maybe this is better than pop music. I need more data to decide. Maybe another nosedive.
They’re lucky the weather’s on our side today, and the wind isn’t trying to pull me off course. Choppy rides are always a little trickier.
“Make sure you use the barf bags, or I’m making you clean it,” I tell them pleasantly, shooting them a wide grin. For some reason that doesn’t put them at ease. I don’t know why. I’m an excellent pilot, and I have a loveable face. “We’re almost at our destination, but it might get choppy.” It won’t unless I do it on purpose; they don’t need to know that. “Did everyone get their designated parachutes?”
“Ourwhat?”
“Oh my god, I’m gonna die.”
“Not today,” I sing. I flick a switch and make sure we’re hovering at the right altitude before giving the signal that they can open the door and drop the rope. The next bit is up to them.I’ll keep them steady while they do their thing. “Off you go, soldiers. Hold on tight: it’s a long way down.” It’s roughly as high as they’ll ever go. Most operations won’t require it.
