Page 52 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

Janna walked around it like she was staring at an expensive piece of art in a museum. Fingers trailing reverently across the struts. Her eyes shining like she’d found the Ark of the Covenant.

“I may need to give you and this thing some alone time,” I said.

“Don’t be jealous.”

“What’s the deal?” I asked her. “Do you just randomly go around asking people if you can touch their planes?”

She gave me a dry look. “My dad used to tell us stories about planes like this,” she said. There was a hint of reverence in her voice. “Every night before bed, he’d pick a story. Famous flights, dogfights, emergency landings, Amelia Earhart—he made them all sound like legends. Obviously the Wright brothers. But there was one story that I absolutely loved. I used to think it was just something he made up or maybe like a fairytale.”

I crossed my arms. “What was it?”

“You ever heard of the Russian Night Witches?”

I raised a brow. “That took a turn. Are we talking goblins and vampires?”

She grinned. “No, seriously. Russian women pilots during World War II. They flew night missions in planes like these. Mostly wood and canvas. No radios, no fancy gear. They’d cut the engines and glide in low to drop bombs right on the enemy. The Germans were terrified of them. Called them Night Witches.”

“Huh, that’s actually pretty badass,” I said, shocked I had never heard of them before. How were there not a hundred movies about this?

“I know. My dad said they’d glide in completely silent, engines off, and the only sound the Germans would hear was the whoosh of their wings cutting through the air. Like death itself was coming for them.” She smiled as she moved to the front of the plane and touched the propeller covered in dust. “Those women weren’t supposed to be warriors. They were teachers, students, and factory workers. But they climbed into these rickety planes night after night, knowing they might not come back.”

I found myself leaning against the wing strut, completely hooked on her story. She was in awe of them and I was in awe of her.

“The thing that got me,” she continued, running her hand along the propeller, “was that they didn’t have parachutes. The planes were too small, too light. If they got shot down, that was it. But they kept flying anyway.”

“No parachutes?”

“None. And the planes were so flimsy that if they flew too fast, the wings would literally tear off. So they had to fly slow, which made them sitting ducks. But somehow, that also made them harder to hit. The German fighters would overshoot them because they couldn’t slow down enough.”

I shook my head, genuinely impressed. “That’s some serious balls.”

“Right?” Her eyes lit up. “They inspired me. If they could do that, I could fly in a plane with all the gadgets and gizmos.”

Then she suddenly gasped. “Oh my God, horsie!”

She darted toward the open doors, where Martha was walking a large horse across the paddock. Janna jogged after them like a little kid at a petting zoo.

I followed, amused. “You okay?”

“I love horses,” she said, running her hand down the horse’s neck. “Used to ride all the time.”

“I’ve never been on one.”

She turned so fast she almost fell over. “Wait. What? You’ve never ridden a horse?”

I shrugged. “Wings over hooves, baby.”

“Oh, hell no. That cannot stand. We’re fixing that.”

“I don’t know⁠—”

“Nope. You’ve got the morning off, don’t you?”

I hesitated.

“Come on. Are you scared of a little horsie?” she teased.

My eyes went to the little horsie. We had very different ideas of what little meant.