Page 2 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

JANNA

I turned on the blinker to take a left, following the sign that promised I was heading in the right direction. I had seriously begun to question myself. I was in the middle of nowhere. Reddington Rescue Airfield was really outside of town.

I couldn’t resist rolling down my window and taking in the fresh air. I had flown straight from Anchorage to Denver, picked up a rental car, and made the drive south. Sabrina Carpenter was singing about an immature ex. Been there, done that.

“Finally,” I exclaimed when I saw the airfield up ahead.

It was about to be my home for the next three to five months, depending on the need. I couldn’t wait. A sign pointed out the employee parking and I realized the little Toyota was out of place amongst the pickups and SUVs.

It was only a rental. If I got to stay, I would buy something more practical for the Colorado weather.

I climbed out of the car, opened the back door to get my purse, and then went to the trunk.

Now, not everyone packed cookies in their checked luggage, but I wasn’t just anyone.

I loved baking. I loved giving away cookies.

And I loved breaking the ice with yummy treats.

They were a surefire way to connect and make things less awkward.

After pulling the cookies from my suitcase and putting them into my massive purse that looked like a Coach but was really just a cheap knock-off, I jerked my suitcase out of the trunk. I quickly pulled up the handle, adjusted my sunglasses, and shut the trunk.

“Be cool, Janna. You are capable. You totally deserve this job. You earned it.”

I needed a cookie. I couldn’t do this without a bit of sugar. I opened the Ziploc bag and pulled one out. It was quality control. I needed to make sure I didn’t feed my new boss and coworkers bad cookies. What if they had gotten a weird taste on the flight over?

I could justify anything if it meant I could get a bite of a sweet something.

“Good to see you, Janna!”

I looked up and saw an older gentleman walking toward me. I recognized his face from the Zoom interview. It was Chuck Reddington, the owner of the whole place.

He ambled over wearing a white button-up shirt with the logo of Reddington Rescue over his left breast pocket.

He had on jeans, and his shirt was tucked in, barely holding back the belly that hung over his belt.

A head full of white hair and matching bushy white eyebrows gave him a bit of a Santa Claus look—minus the beard.

“That’s me.” I smiled and extended my hand.

He shook it with a bright smile. “How was the drive out here?” he asked.

“Long,” I said with a laugh. “I brought cookies.”

I held out the bag, feeling a little ridiculous.

He arched one eyebrow and offered a small smile. “Don’t tell my wife.”

I winked. “It will be our little secret.”

“Can I take your bag?”

“I’ve got it.”

“I know we’ve already met on a video call, but I’m Chuck, and everyone calls me Chief.”

“It’s nice to meet you in person, Chief.”

Chief Reddington munched happily on my cookies and pointed out buildings like he was giving a tour of his pride and joy.

“Do these oatmeal things have crack in them?” he asked through a mouthful, inspecting the third cookie he’d quickly made his way through.

I grinned back. “No crack, Chief. Just extra cinnamon and a splash of Alaskan boredom. And a secret ingredient.”

There wasn’t a secret ingredient. Not really. It was all about the vanilla. I used the good stuff. Not the cheap, watered-down stuff. Maybe that was a secret.

“These are damn good.” He reached into the Ziploc again as we walked.

I’d made them the night before I left—mostly to use up the last of my pantry ingredients in Anchorage.

Everyone loved my cookies. I made a variety of flavors, but the chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin were hits.

And yeah, people thought of oatmeal raisin and automatically assumed it was an old people cookie. Not mine. Mine were amazing.

We walked past two crisscrossing runways that looked like there were lakes on them. Mirages. It wasn’t even summer yet and it was already a lot warmer than I was used to. But I didn’t care. I would survive the change in climate. This job was a huge opportunity for me.

I checked out the few planes sitting in what was essentially an airplane parking lot. The main complex sat ahead of us. It looked like a giant square box. Hopefully they had some good AC in there.

There were several hangars around the area, silver domes that promised to be super hot in the summer. And I knew there was no way those things had AC.

“That’s home base,” Chief said, gesturing with his cookie.

“Bunk rooms on the second floor, common room and kitchen below. Don’t touch anyone’s coffee mug unless you want to lose a finger.

People take the term ‘mine’ very seriously around these parts.

Couch by the window’s the comfiest. Ping pong table and pool table for entertainment, but just be warned, folks are competitive.

The internet sucks, but as long as you don’t have ten people all trying to watch a movie or play one of those stupid shoot-em-up games, you’ll be fine. ”

“I’ll be fine,” I agreed.

He pulled open the door to home base. The place reminded me of a fire station. There were a couple of couches, TV, coffee table and a recliner on one side. A galley-style kitchen with a long dining table and what appeared to be at least ten chairs.

“You can leave your suitcase here. No one’s going to take it. I’ll show you around the hangars.”

“Sounds perfect!”

I followed Chief out of the main building, the heat hitting me like a wall as we stepped into the sun.

I had worn my wrinkle-free pants, my comfy ankle boots, and a short-sleeved blouse.

I didn’t want to look overdressed but I also didn’t want to show up wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

But now, looking around at everyone wearing cargo pants or those slacks that blue-collar workers wore that were made with some industrial-strength fabric, I felt ridiculous in my slacks.

I would change after the tour. I had several pairs of what I called my flying pants.

Cargo pants that actually looked good without making me look like a box with all those big pockets.

The airfield buzzed with activity. There were people in coveralls tinkering with planes, others lounging around in folding chairs reading magazines or messing with their phones and a few tossing a football in the distance.

It was a mix of work and downtime. I could already feel the energy of the place. My new home away from home.

As we walked toward the hangars, I noticed a few heads turn in my direction. A couple of guys leaning against a truck stopped mid-conversation to stare. One of them whistled low, and another called out, “Chief, she’s a little young for you!”

“Honey, you don’t want that old fart. Let me show you a good time!” another one said.

Chief shot them a look that could’ve melted steel. “Knock it off, boys. She’s here to work, not deal with your nonsense.”

They laughed but backed off, though I caught one of them winking at me when Chief wasn’t looking.

I couldn’t help but smile. They were exactly what I expected to be working with.

Flyboys were all the same no matter where you were.

They were cocky, confident, and often ridiculously good-looking.

Muscles for days, tanned skin, and that swagger that came with knowing they were hot stuff.

It was a far cry from the fishermen I’d been flying around in Alaska. The suits that wanted to “rough it” for a week to prove they were still men. The men that had gotten a little pudgy and played golf on the weekends. The men that weren’t afraid to cheat on their wives.

I was so over that nonsense.

I didn’t hate the attention I was getting from the guys.

Not even a little. It had been a while since I’d been around guys that looked like they could bench press me without breaking a sweat.

And yeah, maybe it was shallow, but after months of flying tourists who thought flirting meant asking if I had a boyfriend while reeking of salmon guts, I was so ready for some cocky flyboys.

Chief led me past the first hangar, where a group of mechanics were working on what looked like an engine overhaul.

One of them glanced up and gave me a nod before going back to his work.

Another guy—tall, dark-haired, and built like he spent his free time lifting small cars—leaned against the hangar door with his arms crossed. His eyes followed me as we walked by.

Chief veered right, guiding me past a row of planes. He waved at the driver of a fuel truck as it rumbled by.

“That’s your ride,” he said, stopping beside a sleek little spotter plane with a wide cockpit and a narrow snub nose. “You’ll be eyes in the sky. Your job is to mark the fire lines and keep Herc from flying straight into a damn canyon.”

“Herc?” I asked.

“You’ll meet him soon. He flies one of the tanker planes.”

No sooner had those words left his mouth than a deafening roar split the air behind us, low and fast.

I spun, squinting into the glare of the bright summer sky.

A plane came screaming toward the base. The nose was down and moving way too damn fast for comfort.

Dust and pebbles kicked up from the tarmac as it landed.

Even with my limited experience with the S-2, I knew what it was and I knew it was heavy.

“That guy’s got a death wish,” I muttered.

“Yeah, sometimes he does,” Chief replied with a sigh.

The cockpit popped open and out stepped a man who made my thighs clench. Tall, lean, a black T-shirt with the Reddington Airfield logo stretched across his broad chest. I caught a glimpse of tattoos on his arms. A couple of mechanics wearing overalls rushed to meet him.

One of the mechanics wore a panicked expression.

I had no idea what was happening, but I could tell it was bad.

And I was hooked even though it was wrong to stare.

Rude. But I couldn’t look away. With the way the tall drink of water stalked toward the mechanic, I just knew shit was about to hit the fan.

And like the terrible voyeur I was, I had to watch the train wreck that was about to happen.

Tall Drink of Water grabbed the poor guy by the front of his overalls and yanked him forward, shaking him once, hard enough to jerk the man’s head back. The smaller man looked about two seconds from wetting himself.

“Whoa,” I said, setting down my bag.

I did not tolerate bullies. Period. Full stop. Fuck that. Yes, I was the girl who showed up with cookies, but I was also the girl who would go to battle for the little guy. Us little guys had to stick together.

“Are you going to stop this?” I asked Chief.

“They’re just blowing off steam. Sometimes it’s best to let them work things out themselves.”

I was already making my way over.

Chief sighed behind me. “Oh hell.”

I didn’t care how hot the bully was. I wasn’t about to watch someone get throttled on my first damn day.

“Hey!” I shouted, marching right up to them.

I didn’t think they heard me.

I didn’t know what came over me, but I grabbed Tall Drink’s wrist, which was very muscular, and jerked. “Why don’t you back off, asshole?”

The poor mechanic stared at me with wide eyes. I barely noticed him. My glare was aimed directly at the asshole—the sexy asshole—and hot damn, he was gorgeous. Mean but gorgeous.

He locked his brown eyes on me. Whiskey. That was the color of his eyes. Like a Tennessee whiskey. And then Chris Stapleton was in my head and my mom’s description of the song as “belly rubbing” music had me feeling all warm and weird.

His long black eyelashes blinked once. The thick brows above those beautiful eyes looked like two caterpillars trying to crawl closer together as his brow furrowed at me.

Shit. What the hell was I doing? The man towered over me, his whiskey glare burning me alive. Maybe I should have offered him a cookie instead of trying to play hero.