Chapter 12 #2
And like my easygoing brother always does, he believed me. When she got sick, my excuse made even more sense.
One more lie to add to the pile.
But still, since the moment that jet ascended from the runway, I was awed and fascinated.
I’d wanted to sneak into the cockpit just to understand how we were in the air, but I didn’t want to distract anyone from their work.
I spent the few hours we were airborne gazing out the window at the clouds below us and the endless stretch of blue sky all around us.
And a dream was born. A hope that I nurtured.
One day I would be back in the air. And I would be in charge of the flight.
That was back when things were going okay for my family. We weren’t flush with cash, but our debt was small and manageable. When I started working at Cornfield’s, I was able to save everything I earned.
Then things changed.
“Are you scared now?” Riann asks, bringing my mind back to the present moment and the interview. “When you go flying?”
“I’ve only gone up twice since the emergency landing.
And yes, both times I was scared. Maybe I’ll always be.
” I shrug. “But I don’t think it’s a debilitating fear.
It’s a be careful kind of fear. And anyway…
” I glance at George, offering him a rueful smile as I steal his words.
“Sometimes the things you love are scary.”
He stares down at me, an emotion flaring in his eyes that is gone before I can discern what it was. Then he swallows, and the bob of his Adam’s apple distracts me.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “You just need to make sure it’s worth the risk.”
“That’s a great line.” Riann says, and her voice pulls me away from my fixation on the strong column of George’s neck. “I’m quoting that.”
“Great. Glad you got everything you need.” Is my voice breathy? When did that happen? “I should get back to work.”
“Wait! I still need a picture.”
I sigh. “Riann—”
“Please,” she drags out the word, blinking her big brown eyes at me. “There’re still no customers. And I get extra credit if I include a photo with my article.”
“I don’t mind,” George offers.
What is it with Cornfield people wanting to take pictures of George and me together?
“Fine. But make it quick.” I stand up from the booth, and George slides out to stand beside me. “Where’s this picture happening?” Glancing down, I’m relieved to find there are no visible stains on my uniform. “Can’t believe I’m going to be in The Busy Beaver in this outfit.”
“You look great,” George says softly.
I don’t have time to fixate on his words because Riann grabs my wrist and drags me over to the counter. Billy is watching the whole situation through the pass with a smirk.
I glare at him. “I need a hash brown. Stat.”
“On it.” The cook disappears back into his kitchen cave.
“Sit here.” Riann points at a stool.
After a mighty woe-is-me sigh, I do as she commands. Riann doesn’t have to lead George to my side because he followed on his own. She has him wedge his body into the space beside my stool.
“Arm on the counter,” she directs, and he braces his arm behind my back. I swear I can feel the heat of his body through my uniform. The guy is a walking radiator. That’s the only reason I’m sweating more than is socially acceptable.
Riann holds up her phone—the one her dad worked overtime to get her for Christmas and is now her prized possession—and points the lens our way. “Serious faces first.” Easy enough for George. She snaps a few pictures. “Smile big now.”
Hopefully my expression doesn’t give off hostage-situation vibes.
“George, lean down some. You’re so tall.”
He huffs a laugh, but then a more intense, delicious-smelling wave of heat flows over me, and I know he’s closer than he was a moment ago.
More pictures. “Now pretend like you’re talking to each other.”
I barely stifle a groan. Turning my head, I find that yes, George’s face is much closer to mine. So close that in addition to his rich-guy cologne, I can smell his cinnamon gum, which I find vastly more erotic than Billy’s spearmint.
“Hello, George Bunsen,” I rasp. “How are you enjoying being bossed around by a fourteen-year-old?”
His lips quirk. “Don’t mind so much.”
Even though there aren’t any audible shutter clicks, I’m sure Riann is shooting away.
“I’ve got a flight scheduled for the day after tomorrow, if you’re free.” His silver eyes hold mine, the lid of his baseball cap only inches from my forehead. “It’s a longer one.”
“I have a morning shift here.” Regret at the missed chance itches like bug bites.
“That’s fine. I’m leaving around two in the afternoon.”
My smile starts small and grows as I realize I will be flying again. Soon.
“Perfect,” our amateur photographer announces. “Now kiss.”
A beat of silence as her words register, and George’s eyes widen in a shock that I share.
“Riann!” I whip my head toward her—away from George’s very close face. Then I hop off the stool in protest, but also because my body was on board for her suggestion and about to follow through before my brain wrestled back control.
“Please?” she’s giving me big brown eyes again, but I will not be swayed. “The story is so much juicier if it ends with a romance. Give the people what they want!”
“Riann, I am not making out with a guy to give high schoolers what they want.” Using air quotes around the last three words, I try to use a stern tone, but it comes out more like an exasperated groan. “Good reporters do not manipulate stories to make them more interesting. You report the facts.”
She pouts. “Ugh. Fine. No romance angle.” She swipes through her phone, reviewing the pictures she took as she retreats to the booth to grab her backpack.
“My dad is here. And you’re not allowed to be mad at me for suggesting that you two kiss because it was Sally’s idea.
Bye!” Riann sprints out of the restaurant, leaving a thick air of awkwardness in her wake and the suspicious sound of chuckling from the direction of the kitchen.
George clears his throat, and I decide looking only at his chin is a good idea. Better than meeting eyes most likely full of horror or staring at the mouth it was suggested I kiss.
“So, uh, flying. In two days.” He clears his throat again. “Would you like to come? With me?”
In more ways than one.
“Yes,” I croak. Then the door bell rings, and I don’t even care that literally a horde of teenagers spills in through the entrance because they all pile into two booths in my section. Perfect excuse to eject myself from this mortifying situation. “Gotta get to work.”
By the time I finish taking their orders, George is gone. The only evidence he was here is the empty coffee mug, a four hundred percent tip on the two-dollar check, and a tingling flush that covers every inch of my skin.