Chapter 24
Chapter
Our flight went well. I was able to land without George touching the controls.
But now he seems distracted as we tie the plane down. I thought the man was stoic before, but that was nothing compared to this. His answers aren’t even words. Just grunts. I guess that works fine for us now that I know what I’m doing.
Still, I don’t like this tension.
Things seemed more relaxed when Tasha was here. What’s changed?
Did I do something wrong?
Is he seriously mad that I disagreed with his “impressive” comment?
When I show George my tie-down knots and he gives me another silent nod, I’ve had enough.
“What’s up with you?”
He pauses, eyes on the checklist in his hands. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused,” I snark back, crossing my arms over my chest, annoyed but also energized by the fact that I have no urge to placate or people please.
“Seriously, George. At the wash event you claimed you wanted to be my friend. But now you’re ice cold again.
If you’ve got a problem with me, just say it. ”
He faces me, brows raised almost to his buzzed hairline. “I don’t have a problem with you.”
“I beg to differ.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you grunting at me instead of using actual words?” Or laughing like I saw you doing with Tasha only an hour ago?
That’s what friends look like. I’m feeling like a charity case at the moment.
He sets the clipboard on the pilot’s seat and stalks to where I stand with the wind whipping my hair around my face.
“I spent a lot of my life trying not to talk to you,” he says. “Sometimes it’s hard to get over the habit.”
I frown. “You’re quieter now than you’ve ever been.”
“I’m trying.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“I am,” he growls. “I am trying to be your friend. Trying not to fucking—” he snaps his teeth shut so fast I hear the click of their impact. But I also heard the beginning of his sentence.
“Trying not to fucking…what?” Stepping into his space, I stare up at his aviators, wishing I could see his eyes, even if the slate gray irises reveal nothing.
“Forget it,” he grits out.
“No,” I snap, frustrated. “I’m not going to forget it.
You came into my diner, spouting off ideas of us being friends.
Time to follow through on that and be honest with me.
” I rise on my toes, getting in his face, wishing I had an expensive coffee table to climb up on so I could be level with him. “You’re trying not to fucking what?”
His nostrils flare on a ragged inhale. “I’m trying not to fucking kiss the hell out of your sassy mouth because I know you’d rather bite my tongue off than let me have a taste of you!”
Oh. Oh.
I thought the cockpit of an airplane during engine failure was a silent space.
But it’s nothing compared to this moment, after George’s bellowed declaration.
I drop back on my heels hard enough to jar my knees, not that I notice the pain in my shock. His chest heaves as if he just sprinted up and down the runway. Then he mutters curses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry. Fuck. Just, sorry. That was…I’m your instructor. And you barely tolerate me.” His shoulders drop. “Friends don’t say shit like that. I’m sorry, Beth. I want to be your friend. I swear I do. We can forget I said anything, and I’ll try not to lock up around you. That’s on me. My fault.”
He drags in a deep breath, straightens his spine, grabs the clipboard, and says, “Your altitude control was exceptional, but your heading seemed to be drifting. Keep that in mind next time. On landing—”
I knock the clipboard out of his hand and launch myself at him.
Arms around his neck, mouth against his.
At first, George is still, an unmoving mass of shock.
But I refuse to be deterred after what he just revealed.
Months of a crush I thought was unrequited built me up to a rabid lust raccoon ready to climb this man and steal as many kisses as I can claim.
I suck on his lower lip because I’ve wanted the plump piece of him since his hot hand burned an imprint on my thigh the day of the emergency landing.
And George, coolheaded in an emergency situation, gets with the change of plan fast. His broad hands cup my ass, boosting me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist and get a better angle to devour his cinnamon-gum-flavored mouth. Damn, that spice on his hot tongue tastes decadent.
My nails drag over his buzzed scalp, and he groans so deep I can feel the vibration of the noise in my throat.
Then I feel another vibration in my pocket. One that wrenches me back into the here and now.
My work alarm.
I have work. At the diner.
I do not have time in my hectic schedule to make out with my flight instructor, who I only recently found out doesn’t thoroughly dislike me.
I wrench my head back, gasping for breath as I stare into George’s hazy gray eyes. Guess I knocked his sunglasses off at some point in my frenzy.
“Beth.” There’s a plea in his voice. One that has me squirming in his arms. But not to get away. To get closer.
Stop that! This shouldn’t be happening!
“We shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “You didn’t want to?”
“That’s not…” I swallow hard. “We shouldn’t have.”
His mouth relaxes into the start of a smile, and his fingers flex. Against my ass. “So, you did want to?”
“Well, I’m the one who did the launching, wasn’t I?” And this is the part where I demand to be put down.
Any second now, I’ll definitely say that.
“You did.” George studies my face, then leans in slowly to press a kiss at the corner of my jaw, likely feeling the jump of my pulse under his lips. When he pulls back to meet my eyes again, I try my best to give him a scolding scowl.
But he smiles wider, so I don’t think I’m conveying a proper level of censure.
“I have to go to work,” I announce, which I believe is very similar to Stop using your muscular arms to hold me pressed tight against your solid body with the apex of my thighs getting warmer by the second as it sits flush against your lower belly.
It’s not my fault he can’t properly interpret what I’m saying.
“Before you leave,” George continues with the conversation, still holding me like he can keep me spider-monkeyed around him for hours with no sign of tiring, “I want you to know that I am open for launching. Anytime you want.”
“Well…that’s…I’m not.” I hit him with a second glare. “Don’t think you can waltz into the diner and start sucking my face.”
George grins, looking young with the expression. All signs of sternness gone. His lids flutter half closed, and he hums a happy noise. “Got it. Any future face sucking will be your choice.”
That’s when I realize I’m absentmindedly scratching my nails up and down the back of his scalp.
I stop, and I unlock my ankles.
George immediately lets me down, our bodies sliding against each other as I find my feet. And now I know his whole body was affected by that kiss.
“Beth.” At his suddenly serious tone, I meet George’s intense stare. “I’m following your lead. If you want more, I’m there with you.” He swallows hard. “And if you want me to forget this, I’ll never say a word about it again.”
My jaw works as I try to find any kind of words. How do I respond to that? Especially when I still taste cinnamon?
George’s serious expression softens in the face of my baffled silence, and he turns me by my shoulders to face the parking lot. “Have a good shift at work.”
I take a step, then another, trying not to look like I’m running away. But the more space I get, the more I need. On shaky legs I reach my car, wrench open the door, and collapse into the driver’s seat. Somehow, I manage to maneuver out of the lot without backing into anyone.
As I drive the familiar route to the diner, what just happened plays over and over in my head.
We kissed.
Can that even be called something so tame?
Felt more like a mouth fucking to me. Sexy and sensual and desperate.
With George Bunsen.
I thought we were on the hesitant road to friendship, but I guess I’m not the only one with a weird tangle of feelings. Is his an adrenaline crush, too?
For some reason, that idea makes my gut hurt. I shy away from it and lick my lips, seeking out more cinnamon.
By the time I reach the diner parking lot, I haven’t figured out how to feel about the world-altering moment.
But there is one thing I know I want.
With less-than-steady fingers, I pull out my cell and carefully type a text. The most I can offer him in the moment.
Me: I don’t want you to forget it.
Not even a minute passes before I get a response.
George: Good. Because there’s no way I can.