Page 2 of The Pilot’s Good Girl (Praise Me Like Fire #3)

Jake

This is the part of my job I live for.

Rotor blades slicing through hot wind, smoke rising like ghosts from the tree line, every nerve in my body tuned to the fight. I’ve got maybe six more passes before this thing either dies out or doubles back and eats the road to town alive.

It’s not the biggest fire I’ve fought, not even close. But it’s dangerously placed. Right along the main drag where traffic bottlenecks. Too many civilians trapped with nowhere to go. A scene that can boomerang into a nightmare if we don’t act fast.

I loop the bird around and dip low over the river, swinging the bucket steady and deep until I feel the weight shift under me. Full. Clean. I rise again, banking right toward the line where flames creep closer to the stalled line of cars.

I can see their faces from up here.

Pale. Sweaty. Some filming me like this is a goddamn air show and not a rush job to keep their asses from getting torched.

Then the wind changes.

Sudden. Sharp. Southbound.

Shit.

The fire leaps like it’s alive, snaking downhill with terrifying speed. Flames jump tree to tree, brush to brush, charging straight for the road. No time to call it in. No time to reroute.

I drop the bucket.

The water slams down hard. Direct hit. Steam billows up, and the fire hisses like it’s pissed I got in the way.

But I’m not just soaking the flames. The splash zone hits the cars too. Front row, back row, all of it.

One in particular—a beat-up sky-blue sedan with its sunroof left wide open—gets hammered. Like, biblical flood–level hammered.

Oops.

From my altitude, I spot her. Soaked to the skin, arms out like she’s asking the heavens, Are you kidding me right now?!

Blonde. Wet. Pissed.

And somehow, still composed. No screaming, no flailing. Just glaring up at me with this fire in her eyes like she’s personally offended that I ruined her Target run.

Damn.

She’s hot.

Even dripping wet and steaming with righteous fury, she’s got this…presence. Not in a delicate way. More like a storm you see rolling in across the valley. Unapologetic. Intense.

I loop the chopper around again, forcing myself to focus. Fire first. Flirting with angry civilians later.

Another run. More water, and the line of flames starts to retreat. A few more drops and I can hand it off to the ground crews. Let them mop up while I grab a cold Gatorade and figure out how to explain why I gave a dozen civilians a wet T-shirt contest they never signed up for.

My headset crackles.

“Nice one, Romeo,” Danny teases from his rig down below. “Pretty sure that last drop took out a Prius and the driver’s pride.”

I smirk. “It stopped the fire, didn’t it?”

“And stopped a few hearts. Chief’s on the line. You’re about to get your wings clipped, flyboy.”

Great .

Then the chief’s voice cuts through like gravel and steel.

“Jake. We’ve got this on three dash cams, two live streams, and one TikTok that already has twenty thousand views.”

“That’s a record for me,” I deadpan, banking slightly to avoid a ridge.

“Cut the crap. You’re making a public apology. We’ll spin it as an equipment malfunction, but you’re meeting with the civilians you soaked. Especially the blonde one.”

Of course.

“She looked like she could handle it,” I say, too quickly.

“That doesn’t mean she wanted to. You’re damn good at what you do, but you keep pulling cowboy crap like this and we’ll both be out of a job.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Report back after your next pass. We’ll send you the contact info. And try to look like you’re sorry, not like you just won a game of aerial dodgeball.”

The channel clicks off.

I exhale slowly and stare ahead at the smoke thinning over the hills. My pulse is still racing, my hands tight on the stick. Flying is in my blood. But diplomacy?

Not exactly my airspace.

I swing the bird around again, one last drop to seal the edge. The flames break apart beneath me like they’re giving up.

It’s a win. Everyone’s safe. No injuries. Fire contained.

But now I’ve got to go kiss babies and apologize for doing my damn job. Smooth.

I wonder if the blonde likes coffee.

Or sarcasm.

Because I have a lot of both.

***

Back at the station, I bring the bird down smoothly, like always. Rotors kick up dust in the clearing as I set her down on the helipad. The moment the blades slow, I spot Danny standing off to the side, grinning like a damn idiot.

He’s not alone.

Three people in polo shirts with camera rigs and press badges hover behind him, one of them already prepping a mic like I’m about to give a State of the Union.

“What the hell is this?” I shout over the rotor’s dying noise.

Danny strolls up like he’s got all the time in the world, pulling off his cap and fanning himself. “Welcome home, Maverick. You’re trending.”

I climb out of the cockpit and slam the door shut behind me. “Is it that serious?”

“Oh yeah. You’ve gone viral, bro. The ‘Hotshot Who Rained On A Parade.’ Hashtag’s already got legs.”

I eye the camera crew with growing irritation. One of them lifts a mic toward me. “Mr. Pearson, can you give us a quick—?”

“Nope,” I cut in, holding up a hand.

Danny smirks, arms crossed. “Chief wasn’t joking about you giving a public apology. Broadcast, on record, make it look like a valve issue, not a testosterone-fueled dive bomb.”

I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He just nods toward the crew. “Afraid not. His words were, and I quote, ‘Make the man say sorry before someone tries to sue our asses off.’”

I run a hand through my hair and sigh. I don’t do camera work. I do fire lines and rescue runs. Still, I’m not looking to start trouble, just finish the day.

I step in front of the mic.

“My name is Jake Pearson,” I say, keeping my voice stiff and curt. “The water drop earlier today was meant for the fire line. Due to equipment misfire and wind shift, some of that payload hit parked vehicles. No one was injured. That’s the important part. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

I take a step back. “Are we done here?”

The reporter blinks. “Uh…that’s it?”

“That’s it.” I shoot a look at Danny. “You said public apology. There it is. Let me know when the award nominations come out.”

I start to walk toward the locker bay, peeling off my gloves and ready for a cold drink. I’m halfway to the door when Danny jogs up beside me.

“Not done yet, man.”

I stop, shooting him another glare. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Chief left very clear instructions,” he says, mockingly formal. “The blonde. The one you hydro-bombed the hardest. I think her name is Ruby something…you have to apologize to her in person. Tonight.”

I look up at the darkening sky, then back at him. “Tomorrow morning. She’ll live.”

“Not good enough.”

I scowl. “You know how ridiculous this is?”

“Oh, I do.” He grins. “But apparently she got the worst of it. So…damage control. One-on-one. In person. Those were the boss man’s words.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Fine. Where is she?”

“She’s crashing in the firefighters’ lodge for the night,” Danny says, clearly enjoying this way too much. “We offered compensation. Food, warm bed, getting her car cleaned… Room number twelve.”

I shoot him a look. “You handing out room keys to civilians now?”

“Only the pretty ones.” He winks.

I shake my head. “You’re a menace.”

He shrugs. “Just doing my part for station morale. Go make peace. Try not to scare her off.”

“I’m not thrilled about any of this,” I mutter.

“You know…she’s a looker. It might not be so bad seeing her again.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I murmur, rolling my eyes at him.

But he’s right.

Something about her…even soaked to the bone and ready to spit nails…stuck with me. Maybe it’s the way she held herself so rigidly proud. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes as she glared at me in the sky…the kind of fire I don’t mind chasing.

Even if this whole thing feels like an HR nightmare waiting to happen, I don’t mind seeing her again.

Just one more time. Maybe.

“Room twelve,” I repeat, walking toward the lodge.

“Aren’t you forgetting the flower bouquet?” Danny calls after me, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Women love a peace offering!”

“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.