Chapter 13
Chapter
When I pull into the airport parking lot, I spy George waiting by a car, conversing with someone through the window. I wonder if it’s another club member. I hope it’s not Vernon.
George was stingy with information about this outing, but because I’m slightly desperate for flying time, I decided not to press him. But if I end up stuck in close quarters with a guy who refers to me as a “pretty view,” I’m not going to be a happy camper.
“Beth.” George straightens when he spots me and strides my way, his long legs eating up the asphalt.
Damn the makers of his jeans, because they formed that denim perfectly to give a hint of the muscles beneath.
The guy has good thigh game. I can still recall the heat of them on either side of my hips as we posed for that picture showing off The Bunsen.
That was almost as hot as his cinnamon breath brushing over my lips when he leaned in close for the newspaper picture…
Stop! No more thinking about George’s heat.
And I am officially done with photo shoots forever.
“George,” I greet him, proud that my voice doesn’t go breathy and betray my dirty-skewing thoughts. He comes to a stop in front of me, close enough that I have to stare upward to meet his eyes.
Or, more accurately, point my gas station aviator sunglasses at his designer aviator sunglasses. I got mine for five dollars. I bet his cost more than my last paycheck.
Well, the joke is on him because our eyewear looks exactly the same.
Except for the fact that his are perched on a chiseled nose and cast shadows on wickedly sharp cheekbones.
I realize I’ve been staring at him in all his sunglass glory for longer than is socially acceptable. To be fair, he’s stared just as long, and I was the last to speak, so I blame him for this standoff.
He breaks our sunglass showdown to glance over his shoulder and lifts a hand to wave at the car he just left behind.
“Are you ready for her?” a friendly voice calls out, and I peer around George to spy a gray-haired white woman climbing out from behind the wheel.
“We’re ready,” George says loudly enough to carry across the parking lot.
The woman pops open the door to her back seat. When I see what’s inside, I gasp.
“Is that…?”
“Yeah.” George turns, standing shoulder to shoulder with me.
The woman smiles wide and tugs on a leash that is attached to the collar of an adorable puppy.
The Lab mix has long, gangly legs and floppy ears and moves like she still hasn’t figured out how her body works, tripping over her own paws as she jumps out of the SUV.
The dog’s tail wags faster than the plane propeller, and she lets out an excited yip in greeting.
“You okay with this?”
I glance up at George to find him massaging the back of his thick neck.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Should’ve asked. I know you have a dog, and I thought it would be a fun surprise.”
I think of Grumps, my cranky old-man dog. He would hate the bundle of energy charging toward us on the end of her leash. But I certainly don’t.
“A dog is an amazing surprise.” I grin at the normally taciturn man at my side, still not understanding why I get to meet a puppy at the airport. “Is she a pilot buddy?” I tilt my head toward the woman trying to control her rambunctious charge.
“Me? Heavens no,” she responds, having overheard me. “Like to keep my feet firmly on the ground.” The dog wrangler comes to a stop in front of us. When I hold my hands out for the pup to sniff, the dog covers my palms in wet tongue kisses. “But Pilots and Paws needs drivers, too.”
“Pilots and Paws?” I glance between the two humans as I crouch down to scratch the belly of the fur baby.
“It’s an organization that transports rescue dogs,” George explains.
“Lots of states have shelters filling up,” the woman adds. “We help ease the burden by moving dogs to places where there’s room for them. Where they have a chance of getting adopted or fostered.”
“Wait. We’re flying the dog?” Now I’m fully sitting on the ground, and my lap has been claimed by the pup.
Darla’s words from salon night come back to me.
“What if you get your pilot’s license and then use it to help people…Think about passing on the favor. Paying it forward.”
Pilots and Paws sounds like the exact type of organization that I was hoping to eventually get involved with. A way to help others because George is helping me.
George nods. “If you’re up for it. I fly the plane. You keep her calm.” He props his hands on his waist and stares down at me, an almost-smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. “That work for you?”
In theory, yes. This works very well for me. I get to be in the air more, and I’ll be joined by an adorable doggy that already appears to be utterly devoted to me from the way she is trying to meld her body with mine.
However, I cannot immediately answer his question because my mind needs a moment to process this new information about George Bunsen.
The man works for an organization that helps innocent animals find new homes.
“People get paid to do this?” I croak.
George gives a slow head shake. “Volunteer. Pilots and Paws is nonprofit.”
Oh my god, he does it just because? Who is this man?
Maybe BBN demanded he do volunteer work for some write-off program. But still, he chose this.
“Beth?” George crouches beside me, which tightens his jeans even more, creating high-quality thigh porn.
Answer him!
“Yes. Happy to. I’m happy to help,” I blurt while hugging the dog around her shoulders.
George offers another maybe-smile before straightening. He talks to the woman, whose name I learn is Amanda, and they exchange all the required information for the handoff.
Soon enough I’m in the back seat of the Cessna with a firm grip on Buttercup, heading to her foster home in Pennsylvania. Our job: fly her north, where another volunteer will meet us to drive her the final leg of the journey.
That is if I let them have my new fur baby, which is up for debate.
For the length of the flight, I sit in the back seat, keeping Buttercup calm by petting her.
I’d baby talk to her, too, but George slipped a set of doggy earmuffs on her so the loud rumble of the airplane engine wouldn’t upset the pup.
When we level out in the air, Buttercup settles down and drapes herself over my lap, where she stays for the rest of the flight.
I don’t even mind when my leg falls asleep.
The airport for the handoff is small, a single runway, and on the descent, I can tell the closest area of population is a decent drive away.
The airport isn’t as well maintained as the one we came from.
Here there are cracks in the runway with grass growing through the gaps.
The land we roll past could use a lawnmower.
A couple airplanes that are tied down look like they haven’t been flown in a while.
One has two flat tires, and both have peeling paint and birds nesting in the cowling.
“You did great,” I tell Buttercup before handing her off to a kind-looking older couple. The Pilots and Paws volunteers load the pup in their minivan and offer us a wave before driving off, taking a sliver of my heart with them.
I rub my chest to ease the ache.
You couldn’t have adopted her anyway, I remind myself. She’s too high energy. Buttercup would stress out Mom. Her health can’t take that.
Grumps’s laziness makes him the perfect companion for my family.
“Hungry?” George asks. He watches me, his gray eyes unreadable. We’ve both slipped off our sunglasses, since the clouds hide the sun. “We can get a bite before flying back.”
My stomach did start grumbling sometime before we set down, and I left the batch of brownies I made for George in my car. I’m not looking forward to two hours of hunger on the return with no dog to distract me. Still, I’m skeptical about the offer.
“Eat where? The vending machines?” I wave to a pathetically sparse one sitting outside the small building. “Didn’t see much else walkable when we were landing.”
George points to a car that looks only slightly less dilapidated than the neglected airplanes.
Turns out, the vehicle is a courtesy car for the airport, and any visiting pilot is allowed to use it to go into town. George claims it’s a common setup at smaller airports as he types a four-digit code into a keypad by the office door. He comes out a moment later with a set of keys.
“How do you know the code?” Does he drop off dogs here a lot?
“It’s usually the emergency frequency,” he explains. “Smaller airports don’t always have a staff member on duty.” He swipes on his phone, then holds it up. “There’s a diner. Fifteen-minute drive.”
“Oooh. A diner.” I affect a fake excited voice and clasp my hands under my chin. “Wonder what that’s like.”
George blinks, then returns to swiping on his phone. “I can find another place.”
“No. I’m kidding. It’s fine.” I wave in front of his phone, so he stops typing. “It’ll be nice to eat in one where I don’t have to do the serving.” Besides, diner food is probably all that’s in my price range.
“You sure?”
“Definitely. Diners have hash browns. Greasy potatoes are all I need to be happy in life.”
He nods, slipping his phone in his back pocket. “Good to know.”
We climb into the old, rusty sedan I would not trust for a long road trip, and I let the man drive me to get food.
Which is not a date.