The big kahuna punctuated his orders with precise marching steps of his boots on asphalt.
"Tag, unload your gear off the airplane and let's head over to base ops. Mako, park this baby correctly and bring me a maintenance status ASAP, then meet us over in base ops so we can coordinate with home to ship the parts and people here to patch her up...."
Quade's voice droned into that Peanuts cartoon teacher blur of "mwah, mwah, mwah"
while Bo followed, studying Paige from a growing distance. A man stopped beside her, a burly guy in jeans and a plaid shirt. The dude snitched the rest of her cupcake with unmistakable familiarity.
Talk about a splash of cold water that still didn't wash away coconut-scented fantasies.
He'd never considered she might have moved on with her life. But her husband had been dead for nearly a year—arrested and held without bond last May, murdered in prison the following month.
Bo forced his eyes off her and onto his crew. He should be happy for her. Yippee, whoo-hoo and all that. He was off the hook.
So why the kick in his gut?
He had until tomorrow at noon to figure it out. Too bad he couldn't think about anything except Paige Haugen on a beach towel, setting aside her quirky glasses and swimsuit for a skinny-dip.
"What's the skinny on this guy Kirstie says will be showing you around the air show tomorrow?"
Sliding out of her brother's truck, Paige stifled a wince at Vic's overprotective tone. He slammed the driver's side door on the blue Ford, boots smacking perpetually dusty earth in their patchy front lawn. No sculpted southern gardens and potted ferns for her here.
"Back down, Vic." The last thing she needed was Vic joining forces with their cousin Seth to track Bo Rokowsky, much like they'd done to her first prom date. At least Seth would be slowed by his currently busted ankle. "Bo and I met in Charleston, and he remembered us."
It was a...memorable...time.
What an understatement. She reached into the back seat and unbuckled her sleeping daughter, careful not to bump her baby girl's head on the rack full of fishing poles across the window. "Kirstie's such a charmer, he offered to take off for a couple of hours tomorrow to give her a guided tour."
Brotherly eyes all-knowing under the brim of his John Deere trucker hat, Vic circled around the hood to the passenger side and leaned to scoop the snoozing kid from her arms. "Offered for Kirstie, huh?"
Over protective tones shifted into a higher gear than the straining generator behind their white clapboard house/clinic. Some things never changed. Her older blond brother reminded her of their looming two-story home—weathered, starkly attractive and so very loyal no matter what nature threw their way.
Of course, Vic had been right about Kurt, and she thanked God every day this past year that her brother had never lorded it over her. He'd welcomed her home without question, given her a job and worked like crazy to fill the void in Kirstie's life left by Kurt's death.
With a sleepy sigh, Kirstie sagged against Vic's plaid-covered chest. His devotion was all the more heartbreaking since he'd lost his own daughter in a drowning accident four years ago. His wife had blamed him—the heartless witch—and filed for divorce, the breakup so bitter he'd dug in his bachelor heels deep.
Still, he hadn't winced once when Kirstie had hauled Little Tykes Central through his wide bar gate and into his yard. He swore their arrival was an answer to a prayer, that giving Paige room and board in exchange for a lower salary saved him the pinch of hiring someone at full price.
He'd rescued her pride as well as her butt. She owed him big-time. "Kirstie failed to mention I'm easily six years—" or more, ouch "—older than the guy."
"Doesn't matter to a man. And it's not like you're ancient or, uh..." His gaze landed on the stacked bags of feed in the back of the truck. "Or dog food."
"Where do you get your charm?" She elbowed him in the side.
She didn't want this discussion, and she sure didn't want to remember that lightning crackle moment with Bo Rokowsky. Must be lack of sex messing with her head. Yet if she thought overlong about Kurt touching her, her stomach lurched like the brush tumbling past her feet. How could she have made love with a man so devoid of decency and not sensed something?
Forget about sex. Numb was better. Or it had been, until one lightning look from a cocky flyboy shocked her nerve endings to life again.
"Captain Rokowsky was charmed by Kirstie." Paige hooked her lunch sack over her shoulder. "I should probably check on Seth manning the reception desk and see if he needs ice for his ankle—"
"Captain, huh? He must not be too young."
"Still too young for me, since regardless of my actual age I feel a hundred these days."
She smoothed a hand over her sleeping daughter's head resting on Vic's shoulder. "How about you put Kirstie down on the sofa inside and I'll get a head start unloading the supplies?"
"Damn sweet deal for me."
"Just make sure to click on the intercoms so I can keep an ear out for her."
His smile faded. "I won't let anything happen to her."
She squeezed his sturdy forearm. "I know. Thank you."
A long swallow and curt nod later, he thudded up the steps to the circa 1920s farmhouse.
Paige circled around to the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate. Bending at the knees, she hefted a fifty-pound bag of Mrs. Svenson's rice-fortified dog food for her aging collie. Paige adjusted the weight on her shoulder and started toward the vet offices spoking off the house, a five-by-five clinic sign flapping in the wind, hinges creaking.
Muscle ache offered a healthy, welcome reminder that she held her own now. She trudged up the four side steps, her eyes drawn to the lonely landing strip out back where their cousin's Cessna Skyhawk was parked, stirring images of a certain guitar-toting pilot.
That plane would be better served reminding her of their precarious financial position.
They stayed solvent by Seth flying them out to remote locales for emergency calls.
Ranchers paid through the nose for that service. But mad cow disease and lower beef prices had hit the plains states hard, leaving ranchers panicking over every sick animal, yet short of funds to pay the doctor bill.
Their cousin's sprained ankle would take at least two to three weeks to heal before he could fly again. What a long time to pay a stand-in pilot, even the crappy one Seth had scrounged up who was working for bargain-basement rates.
"Maybe I should invest in a parachute," she mumbled, leaning a hip against the wooden door frame to bear some weight while she slid one hand to the knob.
She reminded herself the substitute was licensed. His finesse factor in the air wasn't great, but they didn't need pretty flying.
Bo Rokowsky was all about finesse and charm—
Ah, for Pete's sake.
The bell tinkled as the door swung wide to reveal her cousin manning the reception desk.
Resembling a blond beach bum more than a meticulous pilot, he lounged back in the office chair with his foot propped on the counter. Baggy cargo shorts and a faded fishing hat made for eclectic receptionist garb. "Have fun today?"
"A blast." Paige kicked the door closed behind her, the scent of ammonia-washed tile greeting her with antiseptic reality. No flowery, insubstantial fantasies here.
Would she be doomed to think of Bo every time she saw a plane? You'd figure she would have enough jammed in her head. She was a working, single mother with a floundering family business to keep alive and a life to rebuild. She would not allow some player flyboy with his charming swagger and killer smile to derail her. "How's the pain today?"
Seth shrugged in that guy manner indicating that to admit pain would be considered wussy. "I'll be ready to kick Vic's ass in a couple of weeks."
"I'll be sure to warn him." Paige flung the sack of dog food onto the counter, her muscles screaming "thank you" in relief.
Not exactly dog food in the looks department, huh? She glanced down at her ragged fingernails and chapped hands, flipped them over to reveal more calluses. Damn it, she was proud of these hands, and she wouldn't let silly vanity steal the joy of accomplishment.
Closing her fingers into a fist, Paige knuckle-nudged her glasses so her unsteady world would tip right again, only to find they were already straight. And she had no choice but to attribute the off-kilter feeling to something—or someone—else.
Given a choice, Bo knew Paige Haugen wouldn't have joined him at the air show for their tour today. So he'd left her no choice by offering in front of her daughter.
Lounging against the Thunderbirds booth, Bo searched the milling crowds for Paige.
Wind battered the inflated toy planes dangling from the wooden crossbar. He swatted one from in front of his face for a clearer view. Would she blow him off and not show up?
She was already—he shoved his flight-suit sleeve away from his watch—three minutes and forty-seven seconds late.
Irritation nipped, along with more of those atomic mosquitoes. He might not have the best dating record in the world, but he never stood anyone up.
Dating?
This was not a date. They were just going to crawl around in a few jets and helicopters, watch the aerial acrobatics, down some of those hot dogs steaming the air. Besides, there was that other guy who stole her cupcakes.
Bo rolled his sleeve back over his watch. Sure he was attracted to her, but the last thing he needed was to tangle up her life with his. Even if she didn't live clear across country, even if her husband hadn't pointed a gun at his head, he would not risk upsetting Kirstie's world. The kid had enough to handle without getting attached to a string of her mama's boyfriends only to watch them walk away.
All moot points because he would only be around for two weeks, three tops. He would keep this and further meetings light, uncomplicated and definitely with no sexual undertones. If she even showed up.
He checked his watch again, trying to ignore his grumbling stomach only made worse by those steaming hot dogs two booths over. And the turkey legs.
And coconut?
His nose twitched. Bo turned to find Paige weaving her way toward him and, oh, yeah, this day would be a torturous exercise in self-control, if he could smell her even from this far away. His hands might not be able to take her, but he allowed his eyes to feast their fill for a few indulgent seconds. Jeans never looked so good as they did riding low on Paige's luscious hips, right where his hands itched to hook. Would the heat of her skin warm the perpetual ache in his reconstructed fingers?
Whoa. Danger zone.
Back off those thoughts pronto, pal, and just keep enjoying the view. Instead of a hair band, today she swept away blond strands with one of those small bandannas tied behind her head, sort of a peasant-handkerchief style with tiny yellow flowers to match her shirt pattern. She sure made the pale color come alive.
Lifting a foot, he shined the top of his boot against the back of his calf. He caught himself midpolish. Not a date, damn it. He slammed his boot to the ground just as Paige dodged another tourist to stop in front of him. Kirstie tucked against her mama's leg like an unshakable wingman.
Bo shoved away from the booth. "Ready for your tour, ladies?"
"Yes, thank you." Paige folded her arms over her breasts.
Only looking, he reminded himself. No harm there. Or was there?
He shifted his attention to Kirstie and tousled the kid's hair. "Good afternoon, Cupcake.
Have you eaten lunch yet?"
"Nope." She eyed the hot-dog booth with longing.
Paige knelt to tie her daughter's pink-and-red tennis shoes. "You ate a second breakfast at eleven."
"Not lunch, though, and maybe he didn't get to eat yet, neither."
"Right you are." He extended his hand for Kirstie to take. "How about a hot dog?"
