Chapter 3
Ryder had been called in on his day off for worse than escorting an English duke and his sister to an offshore rig. Still, standing in the freezing hangar didn’t improve his mood.
“Here they are.” Wyatt nodded as the hangar door swung open.
Ryder’s jaw tightened as they crossed the floor.
The duke was all booming charm and sweeping gestures, peppering Patterson with questions about fishing seasons like he gave a damn.
Probably wanted to brag about roughing it in Alaska at some London dinner party next month.
And when the investment turned complicated—when safety upgrades cut into returns—people like him disappeared, leaving the locals to deal with the mess.
Typical.
The sister though made his shoulders stiffen.
Her rigid posture screamed finishing school and trust funds.
Dark-blond hair pulled back in a severe knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
Pale skin, elegant cheekbones, jet lag she was trying to conceal.
Even wrinkled from travel, her navy suit probably cost more than his monthly pay check.
She moved carefully on heels that had no business being anywhere near a helicopter, blue eyes scanning the hangar with cool assessment.
Another outsider treating Alaska like a photo opportunity. Heels and a suit that wouldn't last ten minutes in real weather—everything about her screamed short-term visit, long-term consequences for everyone else.
“Ryder, Wyatt.” Mayor Patterson waved them over. “Perfect timing. I’d like you to meet the Duke of Lambourne and Lady Ivy. They’re considering a substantial investment in offshore operations along our coastline. George, Ivy, this is Ryder and Wyatt Meyer, our Coast Guard medic and pilot.”
The duke offered a hand to Wyatt, then Ryder. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard glowing things about Coast Guard professionalism.”
Ryder shook the offered hand, noting the softness of his palms. What the hell was he supposed to call a duke anyway? Your Highness? Your Majesty? Your Dukeness? “Good to meet you… Sir.”
“Please, just George. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
The sister remained silent, her eyes tracking him like she was taking inventory.
George glanced at her, then back at Ryder with an apologetic smile that said, she’s always like this, don’t take it personally.
“And this is Lady Ivy,” Patterson continued.
Now, she stepped forward, extending her hand. “Mr. Meyer. Please call me Ivy.”
Up close, she was stunning.
Christ. He looked away, jaw tense. Focus.
But when she spoke, his eyes drifted to her mouth. Full lips moving with that crisp accent. He met her eyes—mistake. Blue as deep water under cloud and completely unimpressed with him. When their hands met, hers was cold, her grip firmer than her frame suggested.
“Ryder is fine.” He released her hand quicker than necessary. “Mayor Patterson mentioned you need transport to the offshore platforms.”
“That’s right,” George rubbed his hands together. “We’re eager to see the operation from the air. Get a proper sense of things. Thank you for taking us on such short notice. The civilian craft we had arranged had mechanical issues.”
Wyatt nodded toward his private chopper. “That’s my Bell 407. Better visibility than a Coast Guard bird. It’s ideal for orientation flights.”
“I thought this was verification of safety protocols and operational standards.” Ivy’s brows lifted. “Not sightseeing.”
“It is.” Ryder folded his arms.
“Good. I just want to make sure we’re hitting all procedural markers.” Her fingers found her collar, straightening what was already straight. “If something’s missed, it could delay permit approvals.”
Great. A micromanager. Probably read a Wikipedia article on helicopter safety during the flight over and now considered herself an expert. He’d seen this before—money masquerading as expertise.
“You’ll get everything you need.” He kept his voice level. “We don’t cut corners.”
Fine lines tightened around her eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting you did. I tend to focus on logistics when I’m nervous.”
Nervous?
But there was a tremor underneath the crisp accent. He pushed the thought away as she continued.
“It’s a habit. From work. Better to over-prepare than assume everything will go smoothly.” She was explaining too much, her spine ramrod straight, her nerves wound tight.
“Ivy.” George’s voice held a gentle warning. “They’re professionals.”
She shot him a look. “I’m aware of that, George.”
Ryder rolled his shoulders against the rising tension. “So. Let’s get you all briefed.”
She nodded her agreement, her attention switching to the helicopter.
“That’s the GX variant, isn’t it?” she asked. “Seats six. Single turbine, maximum range of four hundred and twelve nautical miles. Excellent crosswind stability.” She rattled off the specifications rapid-fire.
Lucky guess. Had to be.
Ryder followed her. Anyone could memorize specs from a brochure. But Wyatt met his gaze, one eyebrow angled, and his brother wasn’t easy to impress.
She walked toward the helicopter without waiting for a reply, heels tapping across the hangar floor. Confidence. That’s all it was. Rich people were good at projecting confidence about things they didn’t understand.
Except then she headed around the nose of the aircraft, her eyes tracking the rotor assembly with focus. Not the casual glance of someone trying to look knowledgeable.
Real assessment.
“Four-blade soft-in-plane rotor system. Conventional tail rotor?”
Okay. That definitely wasn't in any tourist pamphlet.
He folded his arms. Maybe he'd misjudged her—
“Custom,” Wyatt was already by the tow bar. “We upgraded it last year.”
“Lovely.”
The confidence in her voice twisted through him.
He’d heard that tone before—from someone who’d sworn she could handle his world, his job, his life.
Miranda had been brilliant too, with that same sharp competence that made you believe anything was possible.
Until Ellie was born, and suddenly nothing was.
He dragged his gaze away.
The hangar had gone quiet except for the distant hum of machinery. Even George was staring at his sister.
“You know aircraft?” Ryder kept his voice carefully neutral.
“I know engineering.”
George opened his mouth as if he might add something, then seemed to think better of it.
She faced Ryder, and there was steel in her gaze now. Something sharper than aristocratic boredom.
Engineering. Hmm.
Knowing theory and understanding real-world applications were different things. Book smart didn’t mean field smart. But the way she examined the helo—as if she knew what she was looking at.
He exhaled through his nose, shutting down the flicker of interest before it had a chance to catch. She was attractive—hard not to notice—but that was the problem. Smart. Beautiful. Capable. The trifecta of disaster.
Damn it.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t just another rich investor with little concern for the community. Or maybe she was exactly that, and he was letting a pretty face and a few technical terms cloud his judgment. Either way, he had a job to do.
“Fair enough,” his voice came softer this time. “Let’s get you geared up.”
With Wyatt’s help, he hauled open the main hangar doors, letting icy air whistle across the concrete.
Ivy flinched and wrapped her arms tight around her torso as George joined her at the threshold.
Her coat looked expensive, all silk lining and city scent, but it wouldn’t do a damn thing at two thousand feet.
“You’ll freeze in that thing.” Ryder eyed the offending item.
She straightened, arms crossed tight. “It’s fine.”
“Temperature drops ten degrees per thousand feet, and with windchill at cruising speed, you’ll be shaking inside ten minutes.” He shrugged off his flight jacket and held it out. “I don’t want a hypothermic risk on my aircraft.”
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, fire flashing in her eyes.
Good. He preferred her pissed off to nervous.
“There’s heating, but it’s slow and spotty until we’re cruising.” He held out the jacket again. “I have a spare. This isn’t about comfort. It’s about keeping you alert enough not to be a problem in the air.”
Her jaw worked. For a second, he thought she’d shove the jacket right back at him, pride holding her upright. But her fingers twitched where they clutched her coat closed.
She shivered, and her eyes lifted to his face, searching for something. Weakness?
Good luck with that.
He held her gaze. In the field calm did more than kindness.
She didn’t look away. Most people did when he went full Coast Guard on them, but she met his stare, eyes calculating. Heat slid through his chest, sharp and unsettling, like the moment before diving into rough water.
Ivy Lambourne wasn’t most people.
Her pulse beat at the base of her throat—barely visible, but there, and she looked at him as if she saw something unexpected. That should have made him step back.
Instead, it made him want to step closer.
Finally, her shoulders eased. She took the jacket—not surrendering but making a tactical decision.
Smart.
Her fingers brushed his—ice-cold. The brief contact shot through him like static as the faint citrus of her perfume teased his nose.
The jacket swallowed her instantly, sleeves too long, shoulders sloping. For a split second she reminded him of every person he’d ever pulled from the water—small, shaken, needing shelter.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice rusty.
He turned on his heel. He didn’t need her thanks. Protecting people—even the ones who didn’t belong out here—was what he did, who he was.
George cleared his throat. “Well,” he clapped his gloved hands together, a brittle smile cracking across his face. “This is going swimmingly. Shall we discuss the flight plan before we all freeze to death?”
Ivy linked her arm through her brother’s and turned toward the helicopter.
Freezing air stirred in her wake, carrying the scent of jet fuel.
At the door she glanced back once, her gaze catching Ryder’s.
For a heartbeat the noise of the hangar seemed to drop out—just her, framed in glare and rotor wash, chin lifted.
He told himself it meant nothing.
Except it didn’t feel like nothing.
It felt like the first crack of ice underfoot.
That breathless instant before everything gives way.