Page 17 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

“This better than protein bars?” I asked, crouching down to tear off pieces of the meat.

The cat approached cautiously, sniffed once, then devoured the turkey like it hadn’t eaten in days. Which, judging by its condition, was probably accurate.

“Shit,” I muttered, watching it eat. “When’s the last time anyone around here fed you?”

The cat paused long enough to look up at me with its green eyes, then went back to eating. I found myself staying crouched there, watching this scraggly thing tear through the sandwich meat like it was the best meal of its life.

“You know, you can’t make this a habit,” I said. “I’m not running a damn charity here.”

The cat finished eating and started cleaning its face with a paw. Then, to my complete annoyance, it walked over and rubbed against my leg again, purring louder than before.

“Oh, so now we’re friends?” I stood up, brushing cat hair off my jeans. “Don’t get any ideas. This was a one-time thing.”

I walked back to the plane, but the cat followed. When I got back under the S-2 to continue working, it settled down near one of the wheels and curled up in a ball. The thing was ugly. But I felt bad for it.

I got back to work, and with the cat situation settled for the moment, I was back to thinking about her. The girl had gotten under my skin. She was sassy and fucking sexy. I’d been attracted to plenty of women. I liked the simplicity of attraction. Lust was easy. It was hot and fast. Everyone got off and things were good. No attachments. No one expected a phone call the next day. Nobody expected anything. That’s what I wanted. But someone like Janna would want more. She deserved more.

I didn’t need distractions, though, and she was definitely a distraction. The moment I saw her, it was like getting hit by lightning. When she tried to push me away from Tyson, I was lost. She had ensnared me with some kind of invisible tether. That moment in the simulation room made me feel like I was under a spell. I barely managed to get out of there without losing control.

And that pissed me off. My entire life was built around control. And these fucking doors were out of my control.

“Son of a bitch!” I punched the door, demanding it work. I hated that it wouldn’t do as I demanded.

“You planning to punch that plane into submission?”

I flinched before the voice registered.

“Back off, Pickle,” I muttered.

“Can’t,” came the reply. “You look like a guy three seconds away from breaking his hand. Can’t fly if you do.”

I straightened up slowly, letting the wrench clatter to the floor once again. I wiped my hands on a rag, then dragged it across the back of my neck. “I’m considering a bomb. I think this damn thing is dead.”

“Or you could let the guys that have trained and gone to school fix the damn thing,” Pickle said. “You know—the mechanics.”

“Yeah, I tried that and you know how that worked out.”

Pickle was one of the few guys I liked, trusted, and respected. He was a decent guy. Friendly. The kind of guy everyone liked. He knew everyone’s names and people were quick to go to him when they needed to talk. He cooked big breakfasts for the hangar crew when morale got low.

We weren’t friends. Not really. I didn’t do friends.

But we were friendly and I respected him. That was the closest thing to a friend as I would ever get.

“Did you come to check on me?” I asked. “Or to lecture me for being a dick?”

Pickle tilted his head. “I came because I heard you were still out here two hours after dinner, cussing and bitching at an airplane. I don’t think it’s a fair fight.”

“I’m fine.”

He raised one brow. “You’re not fine. You’re stewing.”

“I’m fixing a goddamn plane.”

“You’re bitching at a plane.”

“Look, I’m not here to do therapy, man. But you look like you need a drink before you throw that wrench into the propeller.”

I turned back to the drop door, fuming quietly. The truth was, I did need something. I just didn’t know what.