Page 93 of Wild Card
“You’re taking me to an air show?”
He smiles. “No, Gwen. I’m taking you flying.”
“What?” The word rushes out on a breath, excitement surging inside me.
“I still have a plane. I had to get my hours of practice in somehow, and now I’m kind of attached to it. Can’t bring myself to sell it, even though I probably should.” He shrugs shyly. “Plus, I like tinkering with it when I have the time.”
All I can do is stare at him, slack-jawed, shaking my head in amazement. “You’re taking myflying?” I sound incredulous, and it makes him chuckle.
“Okay, good. I’m glad you’re not freaked out.”
“Freaked out? Are you kidding me? This is amazing! And if I die?” I wink at him. “What a way to go.”
He volleys back with my own words: “But what if you live?”
I just shrug, letting a suggestive smile curve my lips. “Guess I’ll have to come up with a new great way to go.”
He rolls his eyes but fails to bite back on a knowing smirk.
Truthfully, I couldn’t be less worried. Bash might be the most capable man on the planet—flying planes, building stuff, making breakfast, kissing like it’s an art form. There’s no waythisman is crashing his plane.
The truck inches to a stop beside a quiet airstrip. Sunlight glints off a massive steel hangar to my right. Just beyond it, a few smaller outbuildings huddle in its shadow.
With a firm, “Let’s go,” Bash jumps out of the truck and rounds the hood to my side. He opens the door before I’ve even finished unbuckling and reaching for my purse.
When he extends his hand, I catch myself staring at it for a moment. We’ve held hands before, but I’ve always initiated the contact.
I slide my palm into his, sighing as the heat of his touch envelops me, and hop from the truck, slamming the door shut behind me. I don’t let go of his hand. And he makes no move to let mine go either.
Instead, he leads me to the small door at the corner of the hangar while I try—and fail—not to let my eyes wander down over his ass. His worn black Levi’s, trending toward gray, hug him just right, all the way down to his signature black boots. The shearling-lined brown corduroy jacket he’s sporting, withits creamy, plush collar folded down around his neck, is unfairly sexy.
He walks into the hangar with utter confidence, and it’s hot as hell.
“Greg,” he calls out to a man in the corner, raising his hand in a friendly greeting.
“Good to see ya,” Greg replies with a nod.
Bash keeps walking, leading me down a row of similar planes until he stops at one in the farthest corner and faces it proudly.
It’s small, painted a crisp white with two red stripes running along the body. A shot of adrenaline hits me as I realize that I’m about to take to the skies in this glorified metal box.
A thread of unease thrums in me, but it’s overwhelmed by a consuming sense of anticipation.
Like he can sense my swirling emotions, Bash gives my hand a firm squeeze, and he peeks down at me. “You ready?”
I strum my top teeth over my bottom lip and give him a firm nod. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let the adventure begin.”
His eyes hold mine as he repeats the words back. “Let the adventure begin.”
Then I stand there, drooling over him as he gets everything set up. I don’t know what he does, only that he does it with such easy confidence that it looks like second nature. Eventually, Greg strolls over and opens the hangar’s massive sliding doors, exchanging words with Bash about takeoff time and other technical things I don’t understand.
Before I know it, Bash has pulled me up into the passenger’s seat. “You good?” he asks, leaning in close to reach over my shoulders and strap me in. His breath fans against my damp lips as he talks, and while I should probably be paying attention to what he’s saying and thinking about flying, instead I’m thinking about kissing him.
How it felt to be kissedbyhim.
He catches me staring at his mouth, his gaze dropping to mine for only a beat. “Head out of the gutter, Dawson. I’m telling you some of the emergency protocols.”
My stomach flips. He scolds me with such endearment. I haven’t caught a single word of his spiel.
