Page 24 of Air Affair

He wanted to spend time with her, hear what she had to say. He wanted to defend her from all the people trying to use her. And yes, he wanted to sleep with her, but apparently he couldn’t bring himself to follow through until they shared a deeper, more meaningful connection—a connection she wouldn’t, couldn’t welcome. Hell and damnation, this was a pretty fix.

“Rory Belmont, you will be the death of me,” he mumbled to himself as he jogged.

“What was that?” asked O’Donnell, running beside him.

“Nothing,” he said with a shrug and a nonchalant smile.

“No, it was something. I thought I heard the word ‘Belmont’ in there. You may as well tell me. I’ll winkle it out of you one way or another. You know I will.”

Hank sighed. “Have you ever had feelings for a woman you couldn’t ever be with?”

“‘Feelings’ did you say? I must have misheard. The Hank Hawley I know doesn’t have feelings. He has his fun and moves on. Clean and simple.”

“Not this time, apparently,” Hank said, gritting his teeth. “She’s gotten under my skin.”

“Saints preserve us! Are you telling me you have a heart under all that useless muscle?”

Hank laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Don’t tell a soul.”

“Oh, I won’t. Except Thompson. And maybe Pritchard. I can’t keep something this juicy completely to myself, you know. But aside from them, I swear your secret is safe with me.”

“Christ. Leave it to me to spill the beans to the biggest gossip west of the Mississippi. Look, O’Donnell, it isn’t safe for her if this gets out. She has a fiancé.” Or had. But somehow, Hank didn’t believe that particular drama was over. “Not to mention her father⁠—”

“I’m not going to tell Major Belmont. Who do you think I am? He’d shoot your balls off for looking at her the wrong way.”

Hank cleared his throat, not at all grateful for the reminder. “You see my point about keeping this secret.”

“At least let me tell Thompson. I’ll swear him to secrecy.”

“No one,” Hank said forcefully. “Or I’ll forget to keep secret what happened with that girl from Poughkeepsie when you took her on a ferry ride.”

“It’s not my fault she got seasick right after kissing me.”

“If you don’t want Thompson and Pritchard warning every girl you meet that your kisses make girls puke, you’re going to keep my secret.” Hank wasn’t entirely sure this would work. O’Donnell might decide it was worth a few months of ribbing to spill about Rory Belmont.

“Fine, fine. You have my word.”

Hank heaved a sigh of relief.

“But I still get to tease you about it in private,” O’Donnell added.

Looking up to heaven, Hank said a silent prayer for patience.

Two hours later, Hank was sitting on a bench in the park next to the runway, eating a sandwich, lost in thought, when an unpleasant voice interrupted him.

“I found out who you are,” said the senator, approaching from behind and making him jump. How the hell did the senator find him in the middle of a park? “Hank Hawley. Airmail pilot. I should have known. She has a weakness for pilots.”

The senator sat down on the bench beside him, looking out at the trees. The man was lucky to live in the twentieth century, or Hank might have lopped off the man’s head with a broadsword for his audacity.

“I could take your job, send you back to the front.”

Hank smiled. “There’s nothing I’d like better. You think I dreamed of being a pilot so that I could ferry birthday cards back and forth?”

“It would take you away from Aurora.”

With a shrug, he said, “There’s nothing between Rory and me. How could there be? She’s the princess of New York and I’m a nobody. By all means, send me back to the front.”

The senator exhaled with force. “Stay away from her. Do you hear?”