Milly
When Mr. Browne told me Penny’s “Numbers Man” would meet me in Denver, I pictured skinny wrists, glasses sliding down his nose, maybe a pocket protector stuffed with pens.
But that was not what I got. What I got was Austin Adams.
Broad shoulders filling out a plain gray button-down. Dark hair cropped close. A stride so confident and steady, it was obvious he knew how to command a room. He lifted my heaviest suitcase. He didn’t grunt or struggle. He just handled it like it was normal weight. Which was, for reasons I didn’t want to examine yet, wildly attractive. His arms stretched the fabric of his shirt. My brain offered a helpful clinical observation: he looked annoyingly adept. My heart thudded and offered a less professional one: I needed to stop staring.
He was not what I expected. Not even close.
I almost tripped watching him, then snapped my gaze to my shoelace like it was the most riveting thing on earth when he turned his attention to me. Focus, Milly. Numbers Man. Just numbers.
At the gate, Pumpernickel sulked in his pillowcase-covered carrier. Every few seconds, he puffed, a tiny train engine ofdisapproval. I whispered promises of peace and quiet when we got to the cabin. Austin didn’t comment—just swept one look at the departures board and steered us to the right gate.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got X-ray vision too?” I muttered.
“Nope,” he said.
On the flight to Missoula, my nerves turned into chatter. Montana weather, plaid as a lifestyle, goats. Austin didn’t tell me to stop. He just flipped through some packet of property schematics with calm, precise focus, answering with a low hum now and then. I decided to count that as listening.
When the flight attendant offered pretzels or cookies, I said both. Austin raised one eyebrow but accepted the cookie I passed over. He broke it neatly in half and ate without crumbs.
Pumpernickel chuffed under the seat every time we hit a pocket of turbulence.
The Missoula airport was modest but bustling. From there, we crossed the tarmac toward a much smaller plane—a puddle jumper with a paint job that looked like it had survived more than just a few years. Austin eyed the puddle jumper, then nodded his approval when he saw the pilot.
“Is that… safe?” I whispered.
Austin handed the pilot our boarding slips without blinking.
“Perfectly,” the pilot offered.
Which, of course, made me more nervous.
“Yes, Miss Thomas, it’s safe.” Austin said, his voice strong and confident, leaving no room for doubt. Something about him commanded certainty.
The inside was cramped compared to what I was used to. Two rows of single seats facing each other. Pumpernickel’s carrier got buckled in like a paying passenger across from us, his beady eyes glaring through mesh.
The engines started, a guttural whine that rattled my bones.
I clutched the armrest until my knuckles went white. Austin glanced my way but turned back to his phone. The plane bumped down the runway, lifted, and immediately tilted like a carnival ride.
“This is fine,” I said through clenched teeth. “Completely fine.”
Austin nodded next to me, but didn’t seem as discouraged as I did.
When turbulence jolted us, I jumped, and my purse slid from my lap to the floor. Austin caught it before it tipped sideways and dumped its contents. When he handed my purse back, his fingers brushed mine, and my pulse performed a small, unnecessary solo. He didn’t seem to notice. Which was either a relief or a tragedy, depending on which part of me you asked.
“He’s an accomplished pilot, Milly. You’re okay,” Austin said, placing his hand on my knee. A small act of reassurance as he tried to steady me. “I’m right here next to you. There is no reason to worry.” His quiet, reassuring voice calmed my fears a little. His touch on my knee was brief and unintentional, just a quick press, firm, and warm. An inadvertent act that definitely turned my head. My heart skipped and danced, then, just as fast, it was over in a second. He lifted his hand and placed it on my white-knuckled grip on the armrest. I tried not to let him see the way his small comforting touch made me feel.
It felt like a thunderclap. My heart thundered and my attention was diverted from the bumps and dips of the flight to his hand holding mine. His words were helpful, but his touch was captivating. Waking something in me that I’d forgotten about.
He held me until my grip loosened, then patted my hand and let go. The ghost of his touch still lingered long after he let go, but my heart and skin didn’t care.
The bumps blurred after that, my pulse loud in my ears. Every time the plane dipped, I swore I could still feel that phantom pressure on my leg, the steady grip holding my hand, as constant as the ground below us.
By the time we touched down on the narrow Everwood airstrip—little more than a stretch of pavement with a few airplane hangars beside it—I wasn’t sure if I was dizzy from the altitude or from his warm touch.
The crisp Montana air was thin and clean. A little fear and hope of a fresh start became my new companions the moment we stepped outside. Austin had his duffel in hand before I even spotted my suitcase. I wrestled it free and almost toppled sideways.
