Page 2 of Stalked By the Pilot

"Speaking of perks..." His voice trails off as he nods toward the television screen, where the interview I've been half-dreading, half-desiring flickers to life.

I stiffen. I don’t like the way he’s looking at her on the TV screen.

Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I’m about to fight a fellow co-pilot for looking at her on TV with lust in his eyes? When no warm-blooded male on earth wouldn’t do the same? She’s every man’s fantasy.

"She is something," I manage, my eyes glued to her image. There she is, radiant as a sunrise, laughter playing across her ruby lips even in silence. My heart thumps wildly, betraying my cool exterior. She's miles away, yet she fills the space around me, her glow brighter than the low-hung lights of the bar.

"Quite the looker," Mike continues obliviously, swirling his drink. "Not that she holds a candle to the views at altitude."

"Definitely not," I lie smoothly, though Kate's allure makes the grandeur of the skies seem suddenly pedestrian. I'm caught in her orbit, and as her interview unfolds, each word she mouths tugs me deeper into the fantasy of her world—a dangerous, delicious dream that I'm itching to turn into reality.

I tear my gaze from the screen for a brief moment, nursing the scotch in my hand like it's some magical elixir that can bridge the gap between Kate Woodbridge's world and mine. Mike's voice fades into background noise, just another layer of the bar's ambiance I'm tuning out. My pulse quickens with each passing second as I imagine what it would be like to meet her, to be near her.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, the liquid courage swirling in my glass not doing a damn thing to calm the storm she stirs within me. The possibility plays out like a favorite movie in my mind—walking up to her, seeing those emerald eyes light up, hearing her voice not through a screen but directed at me, only me.

I let out a low chuckle. How would I even introduce myself? Hey, I fly planes, you soar on screens, wanna see if we can find some common altitude?

Lamest pickup line ever.

I’m grinning like a drunken fool in the middle of the bar, but it's no use. The fantasy's got its hooks in me deep, reeling me in with every what-if and could-be. My desire for her is like a jet engine revving to full thrust, ready to break the sound barrier—or maybe just my own sanity.

Imagine she says yes. I muse, swirling the scotch. Imagine she looks at me and sees...what? A guy worth her time? It's laughable, really, given our worlds are as distant as stars in different galaxies. But the heart's got this funny way of ignoring logic, especially after a few drinks and the sight of someone like her.

My phone vibrates sharply against my thigh, slicing through the haze of my daydreams.

"Shit," I curse again, digging the device out.

"Excuse me," I tell Mike, thumbing the accept call button as I stand, the buzz of the bar fading away. I bring the phone to my ear. "Caldwell speaking."

"Mr. Caldwell?" The voice on the other end is unfamiliar, brisk, and all business. "We need to talk about a matter concerning your recent flight patterns."

"Flight patterns?" I repeat, my brain struggling to switch gears from fantasies of Kate Woodbridge to the sterile language of aviation bureaucracy. What the hell is this about?

"Can you come to the office tomorrow morning? It's rather urgent," the voice continues, and a chill runs down my spine.

"Sure," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll be there."

"Thank you, Mr. Caldwell. We'll see you then." The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the screen, the image of Kate smiling back at me from the TV above the bar, blissfully unaware of the turbulence that's just entered my life.

"Everything alright?" Mike asks, his brows creased with concern.

"Perfect," I lie, pocketing the phone. "Just perfect." But as I sit back down, the scotch suddenly tastes bitter, and Kate's radiant image is now tinged with the foreboding sense of a storm on the horizon.

CHAPTER

TWO

Ben

The ringtone blares "Danger Zone" and I already know it's Tom on the other end, probably with another one of his harebrained schemes. I snatch up the phone and press it to my ear.

"Ben, you better be sitting down for this," Tom's voice buzzes with more electricity than a live wire.

"Shoot," I say, leaning back into my leather chair, feet propped up on the desk.

"Kate Woodbridge. The Kate Woodbridge," he emphasizes her name like it's holy scripture, "needs a new personal pilot."

My feet thud to the floor, and I sit bolt upright. "You're shitting me."

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