"Yeah, yeah, we all hear you loud and clear around the squadron. No crewdogs for your baby girl."
They shared a laugh at the familiar routine of razzing.
Sure, he didn't have any answers. But at least he now knew he wasn't a nutcase for wanting to fix things that weren't his concern. But hadn't he already made progress? He'd taken care of her pilot problem and alerted her brother about the stranger encounter at the air show. That should have brought satisfaction, resolution.
It didn't.
Tag's words shuffled around in Bo's head about men searching for ways to act. There were still problems. She needed more than a temporary pilot. Any idiot would recognize that, and he liked to think he was at least slightly above idiot level. Logic told him the rage he felt must be nothing compared to what roared inside of her with no place to go.
She needed relief from that pain.
He couldn't erase the heartbreak her scumbag husband had brought, but he had a talent for making women laugh. If ever he'd seen a woman in need of laughter, it was Paige Haugen. So he would play it laid-back, tease a smile from her, lighten her load until he pinpointed the rest of the problem. Damn straight. He'd come up with a solid transitional plan.
Not a convenient excuse to play with a flame hotter than any shooting out of Mako's lighter.
Sipping flaming-hot coffee from her travel mug, Paige stared out at the Cessna wing slicing low-lying clouds in a morning sky while Bo piloted beside her. Okay, so she was actually checking out his reflection in the window with her new glasses, but hey, she was being covert and cool about it. His left hand on the yoke, his right, rested on the throttle.
The steering yoke in front of her mirrored his movements until it somehow seemed he sat in her seat, as well. What a strange thought she'd never entertained when Seth flew—or that awful substitute pilot who'd pitched an unholy fit over being given the heave-ho.
Radio chatter echoed from the headsets they both wore even though they could talk across the console over the low drone of the engine. The man was in complete command here among the dials, controls and clouds. His self-assurance inspired confidence that she could drink her coffee without fear of scalding.
Chicory-scented steam wafted from her mug up to fog the new glasses she'd bought Sunday at the mall. She set aside her mug and tugged the thin gold frames down and off, a more conservative choice than the funky retro glasses she'd bought in defiance right after she arrived in Minot. The glasses would offer a constant reminder that she needed to squelch impulses brought on by this man.
Hitching up the edge of her T-shirt, she swiped washed-soft cotton along the condensation. Coffee, a good night's sleep and a new clear vision of the world—manna for her soul. Sure the coffee stung her raw stomach, but the caffeine and warmth stole through her with a much-needed boost. The weekend attraction must have been a fluke.
A tingle of awareness prickled to life, and she paused cleaning her lenses. Her gaze skated left and...yep. Bo was watching her. Actually, he was watching her clean her glasses, which hitched her T-shirt up to bare a band of skin.
She dropped her shirt and jammed her glasses back on her face. Coffee. Now.
Ahhh. She gripped the mug and glued her gaze outside.
Talk about having her head in the clouds. Jeez. He was just a man, for Pete's sake. The whole dry-lightning melodrama moment from Friday and Saturday must be just that.
Melodrama, not reality. She'd been a victim of over emotionalism during a vulnerable moment brought on from visiting the base. There could be no other explanation for why sitting in a stinky dog kennel with a man seemed bittersweetly romantic.
Paige checked her watch again. Four minutes since takeoff. Chuck Anderson's farm was only a twenty-minute ride by plane, cutting the travel time in more than half by soaring straight rather than contending with slow-moving farm machinery blocking bumpy and narrow roadways. And every minute counted for the horse hit by a car. Luckily she was qualified to take this call since her brother was already out. . Bo's legs flexed inside snug jeans as his tennis-shoe-clad feet rested on the rudder pedals. How come she'd never noticed the tight confines inside this plane before? She could smell the leather of his brown aviator jacket worn with jeans and a white T-shirt, transforming him into something that could have been straight out of Top Gun.
Of course, he was probably too young to remember that movie since he would have been about ten or eleven at the time. She'd seen it on a high school date. Yet watching Bo pilot the plane through the low-lying clouds with such confidence, she began to question her guess on his age, even knowing his recent promotion to captain meant he was likely less than thirty.
"How old are you?" The words tumbled out of her mouth ahead of rational restraint.
"Twenty-seven." He cut a quick look her way, a telling glance with a slight smile that acknowledged there was really only one reason she would ask.
"I'm thirty-three." Only a month away from thirty-four, actually, her conscience prodded her. She tipped the travel mug for another sip.
"Guess that means you're at your sexual peak."
She scalded her tongue and throat with a choked gulp. "I can't believe you said that. Are you always this—"
"Blunt?"
"Audacious."
"Audacious? Hell, no. That's a sissy word."
"Fine, then. No sissy words for the big warrior man." Even while she struggled to be somber, laughter tickled her aching stomach. "Let me rephrase to more manly terms. Are you always this frank?"
He tossed her a laid-back grin. "Nah. I usually try for more charm, but you looked so darn prickly, I couldn't resist teasing a smile out of you."