Chapter 14
Chapter
When we’re settled across from each other on the peeling vinyl seats of a booth, the massive menus spread before us, I try to focus on food and not overanalyze this new piece of George Bunsen he’s revealed today.
“Hash browns,” he murmurs. “You’re in luck.”
I snort.
Wait, did he just make a joke? A small, tiny one, but a joke, nonetheless.
Maybe he’s trying different methods of passing the agonizing time he has to spend with me.
Only, we didn’t have to spend this afternoon together. Technically, no flight instruction went on. I was too busy dog wrangling.
So why did he invite me?
Then I realize I answered my own question. No way could George have transported Buttercup solo. She would have been climbing all over him. That would be super dangerous.
“Who usually helps you?” I ask after putting in my order for eggs over easy and three hash browns. “With the dogs, I mean?”
George busies himself arranging our menus in the holder at the end of our booth. “I can do solo trips if the animals are crated.” He laces his fingers and sets them on the table. “Tasha will help if she’s around.”
That name scratches at my memory until I recall why it’s vaguely familiar.
Tasha Baylor, third of the BnB offspring. I don’t know much about the woman other than she’s around the same age as my brother and George, and she’s an only child like George. Like my father wishes Shawn was.
“What about Shawn?” I ask to get my thoughts away from my toxic parent. “He likes dogs.”
“Doesn’t like flying.”
“What?” How did I not know this? “But he’s always going to the airport. Flying to meetings and all that.”
George nods. “He does better in the jets. Can close the window shade.” The corner of his lips twitches. “He has plane clothes.”
“What does that even mean?”
George huffs something like a laugh. “Basically gym clothes. He changes into them before takeoff. Then changes back into his suit after landing.”
“Why?”
“Says he stress sweats. Otherwise, he needs to wash off so he doesn’t smell in his meetings.”
I gape at the man across the table from me and ponder how Shawn and I could be so far from each other on this. I mean, I was the one who dealt with an emergency landing.
As if reading the thought in my mind, George says, “He flipped out when he found out about the engine failure.”
I can imagine. “Well, you got us safely back on the ground. No harm, no foul.”
George frowns, but our food arriving cuts off whatever response he was going to make. Or maybe he wasn’t going to say anything.
“How did you stay so calm that day?” I ask. “I don’t know that I could do that. Even if I manage to get my license.”
“You’ll get your license,” he says as if it’s a foregone conclusion.
A spark of confidence lights in my chest.
“Okay. When I get my license. I still don’t know how not to freak out if the whole plane fails on me.”
George keeps his eyes on his food, taking bites of his Reuben. Must be his diner go-to. I want to ask how it compares to Cornfield’s, but if he says this one is better, I’ll have to murder him, and then it’ll take me forever to get home without a ride.
“What happened is rare. I doubt you’ll go through it again. But if you do…” His gray gaze raises to hold mine, and I’m caught in the granite stare. “You’re smart. You’d figure it out.”
Oh. Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment. Like, a really good one.
I can’t stop my cheek muscles from dragging the corners of my mouth into a smile. “That was your first time?”
George is in the middle of taking a sip of his drink, so I get to watch his eyes go wide at the possible double meaning and his face flush red as he tries to cough out the water he just inhaled.
“I wasn’t trying to make the question dirty,” I taunt him. “Honestly, this is a reflection on you more than it is on me.”
He scowls, still clearing his throat. I pass him some napkins as a peace offering.
“That was your first time making an emergency landing?” I clarify my question.
George nods, then takes a large bite of his Reuben and frowns down at his plate as he chews. Maybe in an attempt to end the conversation. Or to punish me with silence for making him choke.
But I stand by the statement that it wasn’t my fault.
As I dip the last chunk of hash brown into ketchup and pop the crisp, salty goodness into my mouth, I study the pilot.
The hot pilot.
Using a mental hand, I swat away that moniker, silently cursing Riann for coming up with such an accurate descriptor.
Even the way George eats is attractive. The tensing of his jaw muscles as he chews. The way he drags a thumb across his lower lip to brush away stray crumbs.
I lick my own lips in an unconscious response.
“Are you still hungry?” His deep voice jerks me out of my fixation, and I swipe at my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling.
Am I still hungry? Well, depends on if you’re talking about food or something else.
“That’s a lot of fries you have,” I blurt before I ask him if he’s on the menu.
George eyes my empty plate, one brow arching when he realizes I’ve already polished off my hash browns. A smirk plucks at his lips, and he nudges his food toward me. “Have a few.”
Just for something to do, I reach across the table and grab a handful of fries. But I can’t dump them on my plate because suddenly my arm is not my own.
George has wrapped his strong fingers around my wrist, halting my retreat.
“I said a few.” His second brow raises. “In what world is that a few?”
To be fair, I’d panicked and scooped up most of what was left. But admitting that feels like I’d be admitting I’m rattled by him.
Not happening.
“Sorry, Bunsen,” I snark back. “You should have been more specific.” I tug on my wrist.
He doesn’t let go. “Drop them.”
“No way. They were a gift. I never return gifts.”
George tries to keep his face stern, but I swear he’s biting back a laugh. “If you want this many fries, then you should order some.”
“Or, hear me out.” I push my plate to the side and lean forward. “I can eat the fries that I already own.”
“You do not own them,” he growls through a now-obvious smile.
“We’ll see about that.” I chomp down on one that’s sticking out of my fist. “Mmm. Tastes like deep-fried possession.”
“Don’t you dare eat another one.”
“Like this one?” More salty goodness hits my tongue, and for some reason, these stolen french fries are the best I’ve ever had in my life.
“This is your last chance.” His voice is hard, but his eyes are soft. “Return the hostages.”
“But this hostage looks delicious—hey!” My forehead meets a wall when I go in for another bite, and I realize George is using his free hand to hold me away while he dives in to snap up the fries protruding from my fist. “Stop it, you fiend!”
I try to mimic his move but have a harder time halting his giant head.
While he aggressively chews, George finally lets out a roll of chuckles. The sound of his laughter pricks across my nerve endings, and my wrist informs me that his rough thumb is stroking along my fluttering pulse.
Are we flirting? Am I flirting with George Bunsen?
A crack of thunder shocks me out of my mental tangle. George and I both glance out the window in time to spy raindrops pattering against the glass.
“Shit,” he mutters, dropping my hand and abandoning his food to pull his phone from his back pocket. He sets the device flat on the table so I can watch him navigate to a weather app and pull up the radar. A red cloud of heavy precipitation creeps toward our location.
The fries fall from my slack fingers as I consider the implications of this weather system.
“Wait. Are we stuck here?”
George’s lips firm into a thin line, which is all the answer I need.