Page 41 of One Reckless Night

17

JARED

Istood on the tarmac in the shade of the jet and chatted with the pilot. We were waiting for Amelia to arrive. I was trying—and failing—not to feel excited about spending this kind of time with her. Alone. Away from work.

I told myself it was purely professional, that the conference had to do with her research area anyway. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

The pilot, a grizzled older man named Hank, had been flying me around the country for years.

“So, Hank,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses against the glare. “I’ve been thinking about heading to the Bahamas sometime in the next few months. Maybe take a long weekend.”

Hank’s weathered face broke into a grin. “Now you’re talking, Doc. I was wondering when you’d finally take a real vacation. Been flying you to conferences and consultations but never anywhere just for fun.”

I chuckled. “Well, I figured it’s about time. Maybe Nassau or Eleuthera. Somewhere quiet.”

“Eleuthera’s beautiful this time of year.” Hank nodded enthusiastically. “My wife and I stayed at that resort you put us up in last time you sent us there. Pink sand beaches, crystal clear water—it’s paradise.”

That was our arrangement. Whenever I traveled, Hank’s accommodations were top notch, and occasionally I’d send him and his wife on trips when I didn’t need the jet. It was a small price to pay for having a pilot I trusted completely. He very literally had my life in his hands.

“Just say the word,” Hank continued, checking his watch. “I can have the flight plan filed faster than you can pack a swimsuit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, scanning the tarmac for any sign of Amelia. “Though I might not be going alone this time.”

Hank raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. “Ah, a lady friend?”

I winked. “Maybe.”

Our conversation stopped when I spotted Amelia walking across the tarmac. She looked off. Her shoulders were tense, her expression distant, and she was clutching her bag like it was a lifeline. I frowned, wondering what was going on in that brilliant mind of hers.

“Dr. Pritchard,” I called out, waving her over. “Right on time.”

She approached cautiously, her eyes darting between me and the sleek Gulfstream behind us. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, wayward strands already escaping in the humid air. There was something about her expression—a tightness around her eyes, a strain in her smile—that made me wonder if she’d gotten any rest over the weekend.

“This is Hank,” I said, gesturing to my pilot. “He’s been flying me around for years. Best damn pilot in Florida.”

Hank extended his hand with a warm smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Pritchard.”

“Nice to meet you, Hank. And please, call me Amelia.”

“Well, Amelia,” Hank said, tipping his cap, “I’ll take good care of you both. Weather looks clear. Should be a short, smooth flight.”

“Thank you.” She climbed the steps to the plane with me right behind her. “Nice ride. Do you always fly private?”

“Not always, but most of the time,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. We don’t have a flight attendant for this one, so if you need something, I can get it for you.”

“Thanks. I’m fine.”

It wasn’t long before Hank had us in the air.

“So, this conference,” she said. “What’s on the agenda?”

I leaned back in my seat, crossing my legs. “It’s a big one. Two days of panels, presentations, and networking. The first night is a dinner party with entertainment, the works. You’ll love it. You’ll be able to talk to a lot of people. It’s all about picking brains and making connections.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “And my research? Will there be anything specific to TBI?”

“Absolutely,” I said, pulling out the schedule I’d printed earlier. “There’s a panel on advancements in traumatic brain injury treatments. You’ll be right at home.”

She took the schedule, her eyes scanning the page. “This looks intense. And exciting.”