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Liam stared into the remainder of his glass of tequila. The gold liquid bounced his reflection back at him. He looked older today, or maybe it was the undulation of the liquid. He certainly felt older than ever.
This trip had been unexpected, the storm’s changes unexpected; what more unexpected surprises were to come?
5
Callie
Jonathan’s gaze flashed to her. “You’re doing great, Captain Laurel.”
Jonathan held seniority when it came to the number of flying hours and possibly experience in general due to age, but he’d never once insisted that he take the reins. Callie didn’t need to prove herself, but she wanted to.
Buckets of rain poured down, but the crosswinds and downdrafts were the real problems. The rain could drown an engine, but it was unlikely. However, a nasty crosswind could shove them several feet either direction, or a downdraft could drop them like a boulder onto the runway.
Callie’s nerves solidified. If her father had taught her anything, it was that in tough situations, you buckled down, threw your shoulders back, and faced the problem head on. Of course, he’d never flown into a tropical storm, so what the hell did he know about facing this problem? But still, the principles were there. Focus with your mind free of distraction—which was almost impossible with her thoughts wandering to Liam and his strong arms and gentle hands. Face the situation—his beautiful eyes were a perfect situation. Make a solid plan—maybe this needed to be explored with a cautious approach, just like the runway.
Jonathan’s leg bounced faster as they approached.
The heavy rain made the windshield wipers almost inconsequential. There would be a half a second moment where she could really see out the window, and then it was gone in a blur of sheeting water. Her hands slickened on the control wheel. The plane had the best instrumentation and guidance systems, but in the deluge, Callie questioned their accuracy.
“Callie, are you sure?” he asked.
She was.
Mostly.
A rush of air surged through her body. Goddess Hera, we’ve got this. She didn’t usually talk to Greek gods, but Hera protected, and this flight needed safeguarding.
“Flight 334, you’re cleared for landing.” The announcement echoed in their headphones from the tower.
Callie responded affirmatively and dropped the landing gear.
Jonathan radioed to the cabin. “Folks, please remain buckled for the duration of the flight, and if you’re inclined to do so, maybe send up a prayer or two.”
Callie shook her head at him, but he kept his eyes forward, his concentration clear.
They dropped lower, and a downdraft caught her by surprise. She sucked in a quick breath.
“Boss, you got this.” Jonathan’s soft reassuring voice pulled her back.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
She counted down in her head as the plane dropped toward the landing strip. The tires didn’t squeal like normal—they made a squishing noise that rocketed Callie’s stomach into her throat. The runway was a raging river with minimal visual definition between the pavement and the grass at this point. She kept the focus that had gotten them this far. Soon Jonathan instigated the thrust reversers, and air was forced back through the jets, slowing them quickly. The slippery surface made for momentary challenges, but they were on the ground.
Safely.
“And we’re down.” Callie released a long breath. She pushed the intercom. “Folks, welcome to Monterrey, Mexico. We’re taxiing to the hangar, and we’ll discuss travel to the hotel from there.”
Cheering erupted from the main cabin, and Jonathan smiled.
Meg’s voice called out, “You rock, Captain Laurel!”
Callie had been cautious to bring Meg along. But after a long sob session about how she needed to get away—which Callie thought was probably true, it was for her, too—and how Meg wanted to know the operations inside and out, she’d made a valid argument. But now she’d have a little talk with her about professionalism. They were supposed to be upscale, after all, and from now on they would be.
“Hera Aviation rocks,” a man’s voice followed Meg’s chant. Liam? If their first customer thought they rocked, it was a small victory. She’d take the kudos and forgive Meg.
And Murphy could stick his law where the tropical storm didn’t shine.
Meg stepped into the flight cabin. She pretended to be using a lint roller as a microphone. “Best pilot of the year goes to—Callista Renee Laurel. Speech. Speech. Speech,” she chanted.
