Page 56 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

21

DALTON

The smell hit me the second I stepped out of the main building. Smoke.

But not the bad kind. Not the kind that meant a lightning strike or a call-out or lives hanging in the balance. It was mesquite and charcoal and somebody’s secret spice rub searing into chicken. And Chief was smoking his famous brisket. I’d recognize the smell anywhere. I couldn’t wait to dig in.

The barbecue was a big get-together Chief hosted every year. It was the Reddington team and some of the local firefighters. The wildland crews usually showed up as well. They’d be stationed in the area soon. It was the official kickoff to the season.

I strolled across the tarmac to the hangar where tables were set up inside. I could hear the many conversations and laughter pouring out. Someone was tuning a guitar.

Grills were set up in a loose semi-circle near the hangars, manned by people who had very strong and very opposing opinions about what constituted proper grilling techniques. I stayed out of those discussions.

I was just hoping whatever they cooked was actually cooked. Two years ago there had been a run of food poisoning after the barbecue. Some blamed the potato salad and others blamed the chicken. But pilots and firefighters dealing with the shits in the middle of a raging wildfire was not a good combination.

The many aromas floating through the air had my mouth watering. I walked over to one of the many coolers and grabbed myself a Coors Light. The first sip went down easily.

To my left, a rough-looking group of wildland firefighters were playing cornhole. They were a different breed. While the local departments had the clean-cut thing going on, the guys that slept on the ground for weeks at a time were rough. A lot of them were ex-cons who had turned things around. Their mustard-colored pants and green shirts made sure everyone knew exactly who they were. The FD guys wore their blue T-shirts and blue slacks. The pilots were the jeans and tees guys. Uniforms weren’t necessary in the air.

The local band, consisting of two paramedics, a spotter from our crew, and a fireman, was busy setting up their equipment. They weren’t bad. Not amazing but they didn’t make anyone’s ears bleed. They mostly did classic rock covers, which was always a hit with this crowd.

Pickle appeared at my side, beer already in hand.

“Hell yeah,” he said, surveying the feast preparations. “Brisket, brats, and baked beans. The three Bs of salvation.”

A couple of the wives carrying dishes smiled at us as they walked into the hangar, their kids in tow. There were three tables already covered with foil dishes. Another table was dedicated to desserts. Firefighters could eat and we all knew it might be the last time we got to sit down and really stuff our faces for the next three months.

“Don’t get drunk,” I warned Pickle. “We hear the tones and it’s game time.”

“It’s supposed to rain later. Weatherman said so,” he said and took another drink.

“And the weatherman is never wrong,” I said sourly.

“Don’t worry. Those of us on call will stay sober.” He held up his beer. “This’ll be my only one.”

“Good man.” I scanned the area and dammit, I hated that I was looking for her.

And fuck me. There she was.

Janna.

She walked toward the hangar carrying a plate that I knew was piled with cookies under the foil she covered them with. She was wearing a sundress and her hair in some kind of twist that looked effortless. But the effect? Catastrophic.

“Wow,” I said under my breath.

Pickle followed my gaze, grinned like a bastard. “Yeah, buddy. She’s dressed up for you.”

I scoffed. “Shut the hell up.”

“You shut the hell up. That girl is locked on like a missile, and the target is you.”

My chest tightened. My heart felt like it was trying to jump out of my ribs. There was something weird happening inside my stomach. I hadn’t eaten so I knew it wasn’t food poisoning.

What the hell was happening?

She wants me to notice her and I am. I think my symptoms are that of a panic attack. Do I really like the girl? No, you idiot. You don’t catch feelings. You never catch feelings.

I needed to abort whatever might be happening, the equivalent of hitting the eject button.