Page 60 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

22

JANNA

Icouldn’t remember the last time I had so much fun. I felt like I belonged. These were my people. Music was drifting over from the hangar where a half-decent band was butchering some rock song in a way that was somehow endearing. The smell of grilled meat filled the air. It felt like a nonstop assembly line of food. People had not stopped eating. I was so full I felt like I might explode.

But the food was so good and I was having so much fun. My eyes drifted to where Dalton and Pickle were talking to a couple of other guys. With the sun setting, he had removed the aviators. His hat was pulled low and he looked relaxed. I took a minute to admire him from afar.

I sipped my beer and let my gaze linger on him, taking in the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, the casual way he stood with one hip cocked. Even relaxed, there was something coiled about him, like he was always ready to spring into action. There was stubble along his jaw. I found myself remembering the way it had felt scraping against the skin on my inner thighs. And I remembered my hands on his thighs. I had only gotten a brief look at all those tats. I wanted to study them closer.

God, that kiss under the apple blossoms. It had been so different from the desperate hunger in the storage room. Soft and sweet and devastating in an entirely different way. The gentle brush of his thumb against my lip, the way he’d looked at me like I was something precious instead of just another conquest.

It made me think there was a chance at something real. But I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted. Workplace romances were a bad idea. And I believed Cheryl when she told me the man was a wrecking ball.

I watched him laugh at something Pickle said, his whole face transforming. It was rare to see him unguarded, genuinely enjoying himself. Part of me was a little jealous he was letting everyone see the other side of him. I liked the idea that it was only me who got to see him like that.

My chest tightened as I watched him. This was dangerous territory. Cheryl’s warnings echoed in my head, but sitting here watching him in the golden light, I couldn’t bring myself to care. Maybe I was setting myself up for heartbreak. Maybe he really was just a hit-it-and-quit-it. But that would be okay.

Maybe.

He looked up and saw me. That look in his eyes hit me hard. I knew what I looked like. I’d actually done my hair for once, swapped my usual jeans for a sundress, and even put on mascara, which in my world was basically a prom look. And judging by the way Dalton’s mouth twitched around the rim of his beer bottle, I didn’t look half bad.

Pickle elbowed him and said something that made him shake his head and smirk. Dalton and Pickle made their way over to where I was sitting. They both sat down at the picnic table I was occupying.

Cheryl joined us a few minutes later.

“Be good,” Dalton said in a low voice.

I looked up to see what he was talking about.

Then I saw the man who had tried to start a fight with Pickle at the bar. I could feel the tension and decided to be proactive. I did not want drama.

“Hi,” I greeted. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Janna.”

“Wild Bill,” he said.

He looked at Dalton like he was asking for permission. Dalton nodded at the empty spot at the table. I was glad everyone had made peace with one another.

“Wild Bill,” I said conversationally. “I know how they got their callsigns; how did you get yours?”

He groaned as he sat down. “One time I chased a dollar bill down the tarmac. It was the last dollar I had and I wanted something from the vending machine. I have money in the bank, but I didn’t have cash. And it was windy.”

“I love that yours is literally about chasing money,” I said.

“I didn’t pick it!”

“That’s the point,” Dalton said. “No one picks their callsign. It picks you. And it’s never about the thing you want to be known for.”

“I don’t have one yet,” I said. “And don’t you dare call me Princess.”

Dalton smirked and shook his head. He didn’t say anything and that gave me hope. If he wanted to keep that for our private time, I would be okay with that.

“You will,” Cheryl promised. “It’s always when you least expect it.”

“Great.”

Chief walked up with a tray of bowls, wearing an apron that said “God of Heat” with a cartoon of a chili pepper flexing.

“Who wants some of my world-famous chili?” he called, proud as a peacock.