He checked his watch again, trying to ignore his grumbling stomach only made worse by those steaming hot dogs two booths over. And the turkey legs.
And coconut?
His nose twitched. Bo turned to find Paige weaving her way toward him and, oh, yeah, this day would be a torturous exercise in self-control, if he could smell her even from this far away. His hands might not be able to take her, but he allowed his eyes to feast their fill for a few indulgent seconds. Jeans never looked so good as they did riding low on Paige's luscious hips, right where his hands itched to hook. Would the heat of her skin warm the perpetual ache in his reconstructed fingers?
Whoa. Danger zone.
Back off those thoughts pronto, pal, and just keep enjoying the view. Instead of a hair band, today she swept away blond strands with one of those small bandannas tied behind her head, sort of a peasant-handkerchief style with tiny yellow flowers to match her shirt pattern. She sure made the pale color come alive.
Lifting a foot, he shined the top of his boot against the back of his calf. He caught himself midpolish. Not a date, damn it. He slammed his boot to the ground just as Paige dodged another tourist to stop in front of him. Kirstie tucked against her mama's leg like an unshakable wingman.
Bo shoved away from the booth. "Ready for your tour, ladies?"
"Yes, thank you." Paige folded her arms over her breasts.
Only looking, he reminded himself. No harm there. Or was there?
He shifted his attention to Kirstie and tousled the kid's hair. "Good afternoon, Cupcake.
Have you eaten lunch yet?"
"Nope." She eyed the hot-dog booth with longing.
Paige knelt to tie her daughter's pink-and-red tennis shoes. "You ate a second breakfast at eleven."
"Not lunch, though, and maybe he didn't get to eat yet, neither."
"Right you are." He extended his hand for Kirstie to take. "How about a hot dog?">The big kahuna punctuated his orders with precise marching steps of his boots on asphalt.
"Tag, unload your gear off the airplane and let's head over to base ops. Mako, park this baby correctly and bring me a maintenance status ASAP, then meet us over in base ops so we can coordinate with home to ship the parts and people here to patch her up...."
Quade's voice droned into that Peanuts cartoon teacher blur of "mwah, mwah, mwah"
while Bo followed, studying Paige from a growing distance. A man stopped beside her, a burly guy in jeans and a plaid shirt. The dude snitched the rest of her cupcake with unmistakable familiarity.
Talk about a splash of cold water that still didn't wash away coconut-scented fantasies.
He'd never considered she might have moved on with her life. But her husband had been dead for nearly a year—arrested and held without bond last May, murdered in prison the following month.
Bo forced his eyes off her and onto his crew. He should be happy for her. Yippee, whoo-hoo and all that. He was off the hook.
So why the kick in his gut?
He had until tomorrow at noon to figure it out. Too bad he couldn't think about anything except Paige Haugen on a beach towel, setting aside her quirky glasses and swimsuit for a skinny-dip.
"What's the skinny on this guy Kirstie says will be showing you around the air show tomorrow?"
Sliding out of her brother's truck, Paige stifled a wince at Vic's overprotective tone. He slammed the driver's side door on the blue Ford, boots smacking perpetually dusty earth in their patchy front lawn. No sculpted southern gardens and potted ferns for her here.
"Back down, Vic." The last thing she needed was Vic joining forces with their cousin Seth to track Bo Rokowsky, much like they'd done to her first prom date. At least Seth would be slowed by his currently busted ankle. "Bo and I met in Charleston, and he remembered us."
It was a...memorable...time.
What an understatement. She reached into the back seat and unbuckled her sleeping daughter, careful not to bump her baby girl's head on the rack full of fishing poles across the window. "Kirstie's such a charmer, he offered to take off for a couple of hours tomorrow to give her a guided tour."
Brotherly eyes all-knowing under the brim of his John Deere trucker hat, Vic circled around the hood to the passenger side and leaned to scoop the snoozing kid from her arms. "Offered for Kirstie, huh?"
Over protective tones shifted into a higher gear than the straining generator behind their white clapboard house/clinic. Some things never changed. Her older blond brother reminded her of their looming two-story home—weathered, starkly attractive and so very loyal no matter what nature threw their way.