Chapter 3
THREE
KATHRYN
I don’t like not knowing things.
So naturally, when Douglas tells me to “just be ready at seven” and then refuses to give me a single additional piece of information…
I spiral. But only a little.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him from the passenger seat.
He doesn’t even look over. Just keeps his gaze on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” I insist. “You absolutely do. This whole—” I gesture vaguely between us “—mysterious man, secret plan, ‘I’ll text you the details’ thing?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is a little bit the point.”
I cross my arms. “You could have at least given me a hint.”
“I did.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘wear something you’re comfortable in.’ That could mean literally anything.”
“It narrowed it down.”
“To what? Every outfit I own?”
He finally glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You look good.”
“Flattery will not distract me,” I say, even though it absolutely just did.
“Wasn’t trying to distract you.”
“Then what were you trying to do?”
“Tell the truth.”
My stomach does that annoying little flip again.
I hate that. I really, really hate that I can melt so easily around this guy.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. If you won’t tell me where we’re going, at least give me a clue.”
“No.”
“Douglas.”
“Kathryn.”
I stare at him. He keeps driving like he isn’t being a pain in my ass.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I glance out the window, trying to orient myself.
We’re still in Vegas, obviously, but not headed toward the Strip. Not toward any of the places I would expect for a big, flashy “make up for leaving you hanging” date.
Which is… interesting.
Suspicious.
Intriguing.
“I’m not even going to guess,” I say.
“Good.”
“I’m just going to sit here and be surprised.”
“That’s the plan.”
I narrow my eyes again, but there’s less bite to it now.
Because despite myself…
I’m kind of having fun.
We pull into a private lot about twenty minutes later.
I turn to him slowly. “If this is where you murder me, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
He huffs out a laugh, cutting the engine. “Noted.”
My jaw drops. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ‘I promise I won’t murder you’?”
“Okay,” he says soothingly, like I’m a child. “I promise I won’t murder you.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
He opens his door, stepping out and coming around to my side before I can get mine.
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand.
I hesitate for half a second before taking it, letting him help me out of the truck.
I eye him suspiciously. “If you’re lying, I’ll haunt you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
We walk toward a low building, the hum of something mechanical in the distant growing louder the closer we get.
My steps slow. “Wait.”
He glances back. “What?”
“That’s—” I gesture toward the sound “—that’s not—”
The realization hits all at once.
My eyes widen. “No.”
His mouth curves, just slightly.
“No,” I repeat, pointing at him now. “You did not—”
“Maybe,” he says.
“Oh my God.”
I turn toward the open space beyond the building—and there it is.
A helicopter. Sitting on a pad like this is a completely normal Tuesday night activity.
“Douglas,” I breathe, turning back to him. “What is this?”
“You said you’ve lived in Vegas your whole life, but you’ve never seen it from the air.”
I blink.
“Well,” he continues, like this is no big deal at all, “that seemed like something worth fixing.”
I stare at him. At the helicopter. Then back at him.
“You’re insane,” I decide.
“Possibly.”
“This is not a normal first date.”
“You didn’t want normal.”
I open my mouth to argue. Then I close it. Because, he’s not wrong.
“I hate how much I like this,” I sighs.
He smiles, and this time, it’s not subtle. “This is going to be fun.”
There’s a small waiting area set up off to the side—comfortable seating, low lighting, the distant whir of rotors as one helicopter lifts off into the night sky.
I watch it go, my chest tightening in a way that feels suspiciously like excitement.
“Okay,” I say, turning back to him. “This is—this is really cool.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I do. I just…” I shake my head. “I was expecting dinner. Maybe drinks. Not—this.”
“Oh, there’s dinner.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “There’s more?”
“There’s always more.”
“Who are you?” I ask, half joking, half not.
“Douglas.”
I chuckle. “I walked into that one.”
“You did.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling again. Of course I am.
Everything about this man, who I took for the strong, silent type is a contradiction. A contradiction I’m finding it impossible to ignore.
“Come here,” he says, nodding toward a small setup I hadn’t noticed before.
A table. Set off to the side. And on top of it…
“Oh my God,” I say again.
Prosecco, on ice. Strawberries. And—
“Is that caviar?”
He beams. “It is.”
“Are you trying to impress me?”
“Yes. Is it working?”
I laugh, stepping closer, taking it all in.
“This is… a lot.”
“Too much?”
I glance up at him. My heart hitches. Not because of the view or all the stops he’s pulled out, but because of the way he’s looking at me.
“No,” I say softly. “Not too much.”
Something shifts between us.
I reach for one of the strawberries, mostly so I have something to do with my hands.
“So,” I say, turning back toward him, “are you going to tell me what you actually do, or are we sticking with vague mystery man all night?”
He pours champagne like he didn’t hear that.
“Douglas.”
“I told you. It’s complicated.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’m giving.”
I sigh dramatically. “You’re killing me.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“From women?”
“From everyone.”
“Great.” I narrow my eyes. “You’re one of those guys.”
He hands me a glass. “And you’re still here.”
“For now.”
I take a sip, letting the bubbles settle, watching him over the rim.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. I’ll ask a different way.”
He waits. “You were in the military,” I continue. “That part I got. What did you do?”
“Enough,” he says.
“That’s not an answer either.”
“It’s more than the last one.”
“Low bar.”
“Still counts.”
I study him.
“Were you good at it?” I ask.
His gaze meets mine. Steady.
“Yes.”
Something in my chest tightens. Because that wasn’t arrogance. That was spoken as a fact.
“Did you like it?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“I was good at it,” he repeats.
Which is not the same thing.
I swallow, setting my glass down.
My heart clenches again. I feel an overwhelming need to make a joke. Deflect. Do something to lighten the tension surrounding us. Instead, I step closer. Just a little.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For tonight.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Then back up. “You’re welcome.”
The air shifts again.
The noise of the helicopters, the distant voices—everything fades just enough that it feels like we’re standing in our own little pocket of space.
He steps in, closing the space between us, his hand coming up—not quite touching my face, but close enough that I feel it.
Heat blooms under my skin. My heart thunders.
This is happening.
This is—
“Doug!”
The shout slices through our magical haze.
We both freeze. He turns immediately, instinct taking over, and I follow his gaze.
A man jogs toward us from across the pad, urgency in every step.
“Doug, we need you,” the man says when he gets close enough, slightly out of breath. “There’s been an accident—we’re the closest—”
Douglas’s entire posture shifts. Gone is the man who was about to kiss me.
This is someone else entirely.
But he’s equally appealing.
I exhale slowly.
“Go,” I say before he can say anything.
His eyes snap back to mine, they soften slightly. “Kathryn I—”
“Go,” I repeat, softer this time. “Seriously. I’m not the kind of girl who is going to stop you from… whatever is happening.”
Something flickers in his expression. “I’ll come back,” he says.
There it is again. That promise.
And I want to believe him. Even if I shouldn’t.
“You’d better,” I tell him.
He hesitates for half a second.
Then I reach up, grab his shirt, and pull him down just enough to press a quick, firm kiss to his mouth.
It’s not soft. Not tentative.
But it’s quick. I pull back before he can deepen it.
“For luck,” I say, a little breathless. “Now, go save the day.”
Then he’s gone.
Running toward another helicopter, toward whatever emergency just pulled him away.
I’m left standing there.
Lips tingling.
Heart clenching painfully as his helicopter lifts into the sky.