Page 7 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

DALTON

I was in a shitty mood. Shittier than normal. It had been a shitty day.

“Come on ,” I growled, jamming the tool back into place.

The stubborn metal refused to budge. I put more weight into the bolt, sweat trickling down my back beneath my T-shirt.

It wasn’t even all that hot out anymore.

The sun was almost down, giving a nice reprieve from the heat of the day.

It certainly felt like it was going to be a hot summer. Hot and dry. The worst combination.

It was going to be a busy season, which meant I needed the fucking doors to open. And I was choosing to do my own maintenance. Tyson and his guys had proven to be incompetent. I reached for another tool and moved back under the plane.

A rustling sound made me pause. I glanced over to see a scraggly orange tabby cat stepping on some manuals I had opened on the floor. The damn thing had been showing up for weeks now, always when I was trying to work in peace.

“Not tonight,” I muttered, turning back to the bolt. “Find someone else to bother.”

The cat ignored my annoyance, padding closer and stepping around the tools on the cement floor. I could feel its eyes on me, judging my mechanical skills probably. And me.

“What?” I snapped, looking down at it. “You got something to say?”

The cat blinked slowly, then started cleaning its paw with the kind of casual indifference that reminded me of Chief during one of my rants.

Chief was one of the only people in this world that seemed immune to my attitude.

He always acted like I was an annoying gnat.

It really could have been a blow to my ego but thankfully everyone else was afraid of me when I was on the warpath.

I went back to work, but every few seconds I’d catch movement in my peripheral vision. The cat had crept closer and casually rubbed its face against my legs. It slid between and around my ankles while purring.

“This isn’t entertainment,” I told it. “Go catch a mouse or something useful.”

The cat meowed once. I couldn’t tell if it was arguing with me or demanding. Hard to tell with cats. They were such little demons. But I could appreciate their independent natures.

I managed to loosen the first bolt and moved to the second. The cat followed, repositioning itself to be as close as possible to me.

“You know what your problem is?” I said, grunting as I put my full weight behind the wrench. “You got nothing better to do than watch other people work. Maybe get a job.”

Another meow, this one definitely sounding like attitude.

The bolt finally gave way, and I nearly skinned my knuckles on the housing. “Son of a bitch!”

The cat’s ears flicked back at my outburst, but it didn’t move. Just sat there with that superior cat expression that said it had never struggled with basic mechanical tasks in its life.

“Easy for you to judge,” I muttered, fishing around in my toolbox. “You don’t have to worry about drop doors or hydraulic pressure or mouthy new recruits?—”

I stopped. The cat had moved again, this time close enough that I could see it was skinnier than I’d first thought. Ribs showing through the orange fur. One ear was torn, probably from a fight or a close call with something bigger.

“When’s the last time you ate?” I asked, despite myself.

The cat tilted its head, as if considering whether to answer. I had a protein bar in my back pocket, left over from lunch. I pulled it out, unwrapped it, and broke off a piece. The cat looked at, sniffed, and then flicked its tail.

“Oh, you’re going to be picky,” I said. “What the fuck do you want? Do you see cat food around here?”

The cat meowed again. It wasn’t going to go away. The damn thing was obviously starving. I didn’t want to take responsibility for the creature but I couldn’t just let the poor thing starve.

“Fuck. Come on. I’m sure someone left something in the fridge.”

I dropped my wrench and headed toward the mini fridge in the corner with the cat trailing behind me like we’d been best friends for years.

“Stay here,” I told the cat, though I had no idea why I was bothering to give it instructions.

The fridge held a couple energy drinks, a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in plastic, and a container of leftover Chinese takeout that smelled questionable. I grabbed the sandwich and sniffed. It was turkey and cheese and looked fresh enough.

“This better than protein bars?” I asked, crouching down to tear off pieces of the meat.

The cat approached cautiously, sniffed once, then devoured the turkey like it hadn’t eaten in days. Which, judging by its condition, was probably accurate.

“Shit,” I muttered, watching it eat. “When’s the last time anyone around here fed you?”

The cat paused long enough to look up at me with its green eyes, then went back to eating. I found myself staying crouched there, watching this scraggly thing tear through the sandwich meat like it was the best meal of its life.

“You know, you can’t make this a habit,” I said. “I’m not running a damn charity here.”

The cat finished eating and started cleaning its face with a paw. Then, to my complete annoyance, it walked over and rubbed against my leg again, purring louder than before.

“Oh, so now we’re friends?” I stood up, brushing cat hair off my jeans. “Don’t get any ideas. This was a one-time thing.”

I walked back to the plane, but the cat followed. When I got back under the S-2 to continue working, it settled down near one of the wheels and curled up in a ball. The thing was ugly. But I felt bad for it.

I got back to work, and with the cat situation settled for the moment, I was back to thinking about her .

The girl had gotten under my skin. She was sassy and fucking sexy.

I’d been attracted to plenty of women. I liked the simplicity of attraction.

Lust was easy. It was hot and fast. Everyone got off and things were good.

No attachments. No one expected a phone call the next day.

Nobody expected anything. That’s what I wanted.

But someone like Janna would want more. She deserved more.

I didn’t need distractions, though, and she was definitely a distraction.

The moment I saw her, it was like getting hit by lightning.

When she tried to push me away from Tyson, I was lost. She had ensnared me with some kind of invisible tether.

That moment in the simulation room made me feel like I was under a spell.

I barely managed to get out of there without losing control.

And that pissed me off. My entire life was built around control. And these fucking doors were out of my control.

“Son of a bitch!” I punched the door, demanding it work. I hated that it wouldn’t do as I demanded.

“You planning to punch that plane into submission?”

I flinched before the voice registered.

“Back off, Pickle,” I muttered.

“Can’t,” came the reply. “You look like a guy three seconds away from breaking his hand. Can’t fly if you do.”

I straightened up slowly, letting the wrench clatter to the floor once again. I wiped my hands on a rag, then dragged it across the back of my neck. “I’m considering a bomb. I think this damn thing is dead.”

“Or you could let the guys that have trained and gone to school fix the damn thing,” Pickle said. “You know—the mechanics.”

“Yeah, I tried that and you know how that worked out.”

Pickle was one of the few guys I liked, trusted, and respected. He was a decent guy. Friendly. The kind of guy everyone liked. He knew everyone’s names and people were quick to go to him when they needed to talk. He cooked big breakfasts for the hangar crew when morale got low.

We weren’t friends. Not really. I didn’t do friends.

But we were friendly and I respected him. That was the closest thing to a friend as I would ever get.

“Did you come to check on me?” I asked. “Or to lecture me for being a dick?”

Pickle tilted his head. “I came because I heard you were still out here two hours after dinner, cussing and bitching at an airplane. I don’t think it’s a fair fight.”

“I’m fine.”

He raised one brow. “You’re not fine. You’re stewing.”

“I’m fixing a goddamn plane.”

“You’re bitching at a plane.”

“Look, I’m not here to do therapy, man. But you look like you need a drink before you throw that wrench into the propeller.”

I turned back to the drop door, fuming quietly. The truth was, I did need something. I just didn’t know what.

“I saw you training the new girl,” he said casually, tone lighter now. “Janna, right?”

I didn’t answer.

“She any good?”

“She will be.”

Pickle gave a slow whistle. “That sounded almost like a compliment.”

I ignored that. He kept going.

“Fiery little thing. Smart. Confident. Easy on the eyes. Not your type at all.”

I gave him a flat stare.

“C’mon,” he said, grinning. “Come out for a drink. Just one. You need to blow off some steam. This is just the beginning of the season. You know shit breaks all the time. Nothing ever works a hundred percent of the time.”

“It needs to work a hundred percent of the time,” I snapped.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” he said. “Let’s just relax a little. You’ve got the next three months to growl at everyone.”

“I don’t growl.”

“Yeah, you do.” He grinned and shook his head. “But we all know why. And we appreciate Big Daddy Herc looking out for us.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t ever call me daddy again.”

“What the hell is that?” Pickle’s face contorted into disgust.

“What?”

“That. What the fuck is that?”

I turned and saw the cat. “It’s a cat,” I said flatly.

“I can see it’s a cat. What’s it doing here?”

The scraggly orange thing had apparently decided my toolbox made a good bed. It was curled up in a ball, one paw hanging over the edge, looking completely at home.

“Hell if I know. Thing just showed up.”

Pickle crouched down, making those stupid kissing sounds people make at animals. The cat opened one green eye, assessed him, then closed it again with obvious disdain.

“Friendly little guy,” Pickle said, reaching out to pet it.

The cat’s head snapped up and it hissed, ears flattened back against its skull.

Pickle jerked his hand back. “Jesus!”

“Yeah, it’s got attitude,” I said, unable to keep the smirk off my face. “Reminds me of someone.”

“You fed it, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. Look at it. It’s made itself at home in your workspace. That’s what happens when you feed strays, Herc. They think they own the place.”

I turned back to the plane, ignoring the accusation even though it was true. The damn cat had eaten half a sandwich and now apparently thought it lived here. And I wasn’t about to tell him it had never hissed at me.

“Come on,” Pickle said, standing up and dusting off his hands. “Leave the plane. Leave the cat. Let’s go get that drink.”

I wanted to say no. I really did, but it might be the last time we got the chance to kick back without thinking about our guys out fighting fires. “Fine.”