Jack slips it out of my grasp, moving to capture both of my hands in his. But he stops and pinches his eyes closed for a second before meeting my gaze. “Our fears are rarely logical, but they’re not silly, either. I promise you’ll be safe, though.”
I roll my eyes, not one bit comforted by his words and even more annoyed at his reluctance to touch me. “What if the pilot just got off a bender? Or the propellers fail to…propel…”
“The pilot is very experienced and has an excellent flightrecord. And I happen to know for a fact that he got a very good night’s sleep.”
My mental spiralling stalls when the server brings our plates—my glorious steaming Belgian waffle looking even more delectable beside Jack’s noticeably boring omelet with a side of fruit. But then she also places his sugary caramel iced coffee down, and I smile. “Is this your usual? Healthy with a side of sugar?”
“Most of the time.” He smirks while cutting his omelet.
I slowly nibble away at my waffle while Jack attempts to distract me with questions about my family and the courses I’m taking. I bore myself when it comes to the sports journalism stuff, but just like when we were in the canyon and he let me ramble about image consulting, I get lost in painting a picture of everything my course with Fiona Sterling will cover.
He listens the entire time, letting some of those rare smiles sneak out. His gaze is focused on me, yet I don’t miss how he’s fully aware of every person in the small diner—a reminder that there’s still a murderer who’s probably quite irritated with me.
Let’s hope the murderer doesn’t have a pilot’s license.
A new officer meets us outside the diner and drives us to an open area in the middle of the desert. It only took us three minutes to get here, but it looks like the kind of place to dump a body. Were it not for Jack’s presence and the white, yellow, and blue National Park Service helicopter amongst the arid landscape, I’d be a bit more concerned.
Jack removes our bags before the car we arrived in is driven away by our silent chauffeur. There sure is a lot of wordless communication between these men.
I frown over at the helicopter, which looks so much smaller than expected. And we’ll be stuck in that thing for fifty minutes, flying across the same canyon that has already tried to kill me. I remind myself that this canyon forced me to learn things aboutmyself, too, so maybe crossing it from a different vantage point won’t be as frightening as it was the first time, on foot. I also shouldn’t have to worry about peeing in it, so there’s that.
Jack turns to me, his eyes soft beneath the stubborn curl of hair that always escapes and hovers over his brow. “This is the easy part, Lo. You’ll be on the other side in no time.”
“It’s whether or not I arrive separate from the breakfast I just ate that should concern you.”
He chuckles quietly. “We have sick bags. You can carry one close, so either way, you and your breakfast arrive together.”
“Ew.”
He looks down and lays a hand over mine. It’s so gentle and sure, his gaze fixed on the spot where his skin meets mine, as if the contact is still a marvel to him after so many years of avoiding touch. But there’s a sadness in the dip of his brows as his eyes move to the officers outside. He glances back at me with a sigh, and I fight the urge to throw myself at him in a bear hug and beg him to find another way across the canyon. But as much as I want to avoid climbing into that giant metal bird, this is another thing I need to face. I don’t have to love it, but I won’t let fear keep me from doing it.
Jack carries our bags, leaving them a few feet away from the helicopter before greeting Owen and Mary. I glance around for the pilot, who is clearly and unprofessionally late. Not that I know what time they’re supposed to be here, but surely they should be present. I mean, doesn’t this aircraft need some kind of preparation or inspection?
Owen slaps a clipboard on Jack’s chest, clapping him on the shoulder before joining Mary. Both officers’ hands slide into their uniformed pockets like this is an everyday occurrence. With matching warm taupe-colored shirts, they make me think of the day I met Jack. He looked admittedly a lot more appealing in his Park Ranger uniform than these two do, nooffense to their rather slim builds. And while the shade fits well into my true Spring palette, I could never work in a profession where I had to wear the same color every day, especially if that color wasbeige.
I frown as Jack begins fussing with various parts of the helicopter, inspecting every inch of it. Hell, if he’s nervous and this is the way it’s working itself out, it’s not very promising for my hopes of making it out of here alive. He’s supposed to be the level-headed one.
“Jack…you okay?” I ask hesitantly.
He sticks his head out from the other side of the aircraft, a toothpick balancing in the corner of his mouth. “I’m good. You?”
This is morphing into aTop Gunmovie right in front of me. I swear, if he pulls out a pair of aviators, I’m going to swoon right here.
“Uh…yeah, but I think the pilot might be a bit upset with you prodding around in there.” I point to where he’s been looking at the gauges and underparts of the helicopter.
Mary sings out an amused sigh, and I flick my eyes to him with a frown. “Whereisthe pilot, anyway?” I ask, turning to Jack as he struts closer, the athletic blazer he’s wearing straining over his shoulders.
And then he freaking does it. He reaches into his inner jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, a very matter-of-fact tilt to his mouth as he slides them on. The crazy part is he’s not even trying to look seductive or cocky when he does it—the man just oozes appeal without even trying. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that he nearly stopped my heart with that maneuver. Yet I’d be concerned if there were any elderly ladies nearby, because no pacemaker stands a chance against what he just did.
Here’s the thing: For those of us who didn’t grow up with a Tom Cruise crush, I’d bet my entire wardrobe that their ovarieshave at least swooned at the sight of Josh Duhamel or Glen Powell in a pair of aviators. Heck, Tyler Hynes is the reason I watch Hallmark movies. Still, I’d argue that nobody has ever looked better in a pair of aviators than this broody ranger.
“Jack, where is the pilot?” I blurt out, though I know the answer.
“You’re lookin’ at him.” He grins.
“How did this never come up? Did you just have those ready to go?” I gesture to Jack’s polarized lenses. I’m looking a touch too unhinged now that I get a glimpse of my reflection in his glasses, and I straighten my flyaways before planting a hand on my hip.
I don’t know why I’m getting this riled up about him looking so damn appealing right now. Maybe it’s because it makes the thought of never seeing him again that much harder.
