Page 92 of Fly Boy
Pippa leans on the armrest of the co-pilot seat, walking her fingers up my arm.
“Please?” She pouts. “I want to take you out for dinner.”
My gaze lifts to hers. “Like on a date?”
Something about that throws me off balance—a date. Something we’ve never done before and something I should have asked her on long before now, instead of hiding her away in my bed for hours every weekend.
“Uh, well…” She flushes, not just a faint splattering of pink across her cheeks. No, her entire face turns red as she glances around the cockpit, avoiding me. “I mean, it’s getting late. You’re going to get dinner… I’m going to get dinner… we should get it together. It makes sense since we’re going to spend the night together, so why don’t we just do everything together and…” Shutting her eyes, she takes a deep breath. I should cut in, help her out, but her rambling is endearing, so fucking cute and sounlike her that I want to see where she’s going with it. She groans, then mutters, “I should stop saying the word together.”
Standing and closing the very small gap between us, I hold her chin between my finger and thumb.
“I should have asked you out long before now,” I say, using the tip of my thumb to pull her lower lip down, watching it fall back into place.
“Really?” She looks up at me from under her eyelashes, her voice a whisper before she clears her throat, squaring her shoulders. “I mean, yes, you should have. But I think you’d really like this Italian place. That’s what I meant to say.”
“I’d be happy eating from a taco truck.” She sighs into my kiss, her lips soft and tender as I brush mine over hers. “It’s a date, baby.”
She sags against me, and I can feel her smile as she breathes, “Okay then.”
“If you’d like to take your seat, we’ll leave as soon as the fuelers arrive.”
“You mean we can go?” she asks, bouncing back, eyes wide.
I stretch over and tap my tablet. “Confirmation’s through now. The new flight plan has been approved.”
She squeals, grabbing my shoulders and smacking a kiss to my cheek before bounding into the cabin, throwing herself into her chair. “You are going to love this place.”
The flight is short, and by the time we land, Pippa is already out of her seat, tugging on my hand. “C’mon, I called ahead, and they’ve managed to squeeze us in, but we have to move. We don’t have much time.”
“If we miss this reservation, we can just go anywhere else that serves Italian.”
Her mouth drops, and she stabs her fingers into my pec. “It is not justanyItalian restaurant. It is one ofthebest Italianrestaurants to have ever opened, and their waitlist is more than ten months in advance.”
“So, how did we end up with a table?” I ask, removing my epaulets and tie and dropping them onto my seat. Pippa’s quiet, and I glance up, noticing her watching me as I unfasten the cuff links and tuck them in the tie to keep them safe. She still hasn’t answered by the time I’m rolling up my shirt sleeves, exposing my tattoos, and her tongue runs along her lips hungrily. “Pippa?”
“Oh right,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, looking flustered.
I swallow a grin as I gather up my things and slot them inside the front of my flight bag, zipping it up.
She wrinkles her nose, looking embarrassed. “I might have used my last name.” I bark a laugh, and she holds up her hands in exasperation. “Look, I’m not proud of it, but I am dying for a bowl of their linguine. And I’ll leave a massive tip so it doesn’t make me feel as icky.”
Icky or not, I can see why Pippa played the name card to jump the waitlist because the food is exquisite, the view of the harbor is amazing, and she doesn’t spare any expense, requesting the two-hundred dollar per head meal as soon as we sit down.
“What happened to wanting a bowl of pasta?” I ask, taking a sip from my glass of water.
“I did want that, but then I saw what they had on their new executive chef’s tasting menu. That chef has been all over the major food blogs, and I have beendyingto try his stuff when he used to work in New York.”
Sitting back in my seat, I watch her eyes grow wide as she talks about this big-time chef and his amazing food. She beams as she speaks, her hands gesturing wildly around her as she explains about his dishes.
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Didn’t have the time. Practice was unbelievably grueling when I was trying to make a name for myself, and by the time I could go, he’d left.” She leans forward, whispering as if she’s scared this infamous chef could hear her. “Apparently, he’s chasing a Michelin Star, and given how mouthwateringly good people say his food is, he’s bound to get it.”
I chuckle. “Well, hopefully you enjoy his cooking tonight.”
She gasps excitedly, straightening in her seat to look toward the kitchen door. “Do you think he’s here? Cooking our dinner now?”
“No idea, baby.”
