Page 18 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

“I saw you training the new girl,” he said casually, tone lighter now. “Janna, right?”

I didn’t answer.

“She any good?”

“She will be.”

Pickle gave a slow whistle. “That sounded almost like a compliment.”

I ignored that. He kept going.

“Fiery little thing. Smart. Confident. Easy on the eyes. Not your type at all.”

I gave him a flat stare.

“C’mon,” he said, grinning. “Come out for a drink. Just one. You need to blow off some steam. This is just the beginning of the season. You know shit breaks all the time. Nothing ever works a hundred percent of the time.”

“It needs to work a hundred percent of the time,” I snapped.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” he said. “Let’s just relax a little. You’ve got the next three months to growl at everyone.”

“I don’t growl.”

“Yeah, you do.” He grinned and shook his head. “But we all know why. And we appreciate Big Daddy Herc looking out for us.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t ever call me daddy again.”

“What the hell is that?” Pickle’s face contorted into disgust.

“What?”

“That. What the fuck is that?”

I turned and saw the cat. “It’s a cat,” I said flatly.

“I can see it’s a cat. What’s it doing here?”

The scraggly orange thing had apparently decided my toolbox made a good bed. It was curled up in a ball, one paw hanging over the edge, looking completely at home.

“Hell if I know. Thing just showed up.”

Pickle crouched down, making those stupid kissing sounds people make at animals. The cat opened one green eye, assessed him, then closed it again with obvious disdain.

“Friendly little guy,” Pickle said, reaching out to pet it.

The cat’s head snapped up and it hissed, ears flattened back against its skull.

Pickle jerked his hand back. “Jesus!”

“Yeah, it’s got attitude,” I said, unable to keep the smirk off my face. “Reminds me of someone.”

“You fed it, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. Look at it. It’s made itself at home in your workspace. That’s what happens when you feed strays, Herc. They think they own the place.”

I turned back to the plane, ignoring the accusation even though it was true. The damn cat had eaten half a sandwich and now apparently thought it lived here. And I wasn’t about to tell him it had never hissed at me.

“Come on,” Pickle said, standing up and dusting off his hands. “Leave the plane. Leave the cat. Let’s go get that drink.”

I wanted to say no. I really did, but it might be the last time we got the chance to kick back without thinking about our guys out fighting fires. “Fine.”