Page 27 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Uh, yeah.” For some reason my neck muscles feel tight. I tap the counter and point to her laptop. “You do that often?”
“What?” She looks where I’m pointing. “Skype sessions? Yeah.”
“With kids?”
“Yeah…” She draws out the word, looking at me like I’m stupid.
When I just stand here, she tilts her head at the fridge. “So about that sandwich?”
Relieved at something to do, I pull open the old ivory-colored appliance. Loading up my arms with lunch meat, cheese and condiments, I throw over my shoulder, “And, uh, sorry about what I said on the porch after your run. You know… about Tucker.” I straighten and drop the ingredients on the counter in front of her. “That was out of line and I’m sorry.”
She seems to think things over, frowning, but with that trademark gleam in her eye. “All right, cowboy.” She nods, her curls bouncing. “You’re forgiven.”
We share a smile that seems more weighted than usual before each of us looks down. Me with sandwich assembly, her with keyboard tapping.
With the sandwiches complete, I grab two Cokes and a bag of chips from the pantry and set everything down in front of the island barstools.
Popping the top off her can, she clinks it with mine. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She reaches out to close the laptop but I stop her with my hand on hers. “Wait.”
Jesus. Even her side-eye is sexy.
“Why don’t we look over the wedding stuff while we eat?”
She smiles, her eyes softening around the edges as she sets down her drink to slide her laptop between us. The screen is full of graphs and an email inbox that looks to be over fifty emails long. And that’s just the unopened ones.
Widows are minimized and a Dropbox folder opens. A few more clicks and we’re drowning in photos of various barn weddings.
Grabbing her sandwich and taking a large bite, Jules moves the food to the side of her mouth and mumbles, “Here we go.”
One of the pictures has a crystal chandelier hanging from the barn rafter.
Here we go indeed.
Eight
Bogey
Jules
“Mother-fucking-bliss.”
It’s one of those rare mild days in Houston and I’m standing in one of my favorite places, Ellington Air Field, looking at one of my favorite things, a T-38 jet. Painted white, hence the term “white rocket,” this particular T-38 has a long blue stripe and NASA’s emblem on the side.
Besides the space shuttle and my Ducati, the T-38 is the only other engine that could give me an orgasm on sight. It’s that beautiful.
Bodie nudges me with his shoulder. “And justhowdid you manage to convince Aircraft Ops to sign off on you taking me up for training while you’re on ‘vacation’?” He air quotes for me.
Idiot.
“Please.” I scoff. “The brass knows any PR spot with NASA’s Starr is a good thing.” I tip my head, gesturing behind him to the crowd of reporters and cameramen.
And I may have bullied my way into getting some air time. Baby cows are cute. Wedding plans—handled. But by God, I need a little reminder of who I am.
Looking over the journalists, Bodie’s eyebrows jump. “Please, you know they’re here for my good looks.”
