Page 7 of The SEAL's Duchess
“Custom,” Wyatt was already by the tow bar. “We upgraded it last year.”
“Lovely.”
The confidence in her voice twisted through him. He’d heard that tone before—from someone who’d sworn she could handle his world, his job, his life. Miranda had been brilliant too, with that same sharp competence that made you believe anything was possible. Until Ellie was born, and suddenly nothing was.
He dragged his gaze away.
The hangar had gone quiet except for the distant hum of machinery. Even George was staring at his sister.
“You know aircraft?” Ryder kept his voice carefully neutral.
“I know engineering.”
George opened his mouth as if he might add something, then seemed to think better of it.
She faced Ryder, and there was steel in her gaze now. Something sharper than aristocratic boredom.
Engineering. Hmm.
Knowing theory and understanding real-world applications were different things. Book smart didn’t mean field smart. But the way she examined the helo—as if she knew what she was looking at.
He exhaled through his nose, shutting down the flicker of interest before it had a chance to catch. She was attractive—hard not to notice—but that was the problem. Smart. Beautiful. Capable. The trifecta of disaster.
Damn it.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t just another rich investor with little concern for the community. Or maybe she was exactly that, and he was letting a pretty face and a few technical terms cloud his judgment. Either way, he had a job to do.
“Fair enough,” his voice came softer this time. “Let’s get you geared up.”
With Wyatt’s help, he hauled open the main hangar doors, letting icy air whistle across the concrete.
Ivy flinched and wrapped her arms tight around her torso as George joined her at the threshold.
Her coat looked expensive, all silk lining and city scent, but it wouldn’t do a damn thing at two thousand feet.
“You’ll freeze in that thing.” Ryder eyed the offending item.
She straightened, arms crossed tight. “It’s fine.”
“Temperature drops ten degrees per thousand feet, and with windchill at cruising speed, you’ll be shaking inside ten minutes.” He shrugged off his flight jacket and held it out. “I don’t want a hypothermic risk on my aircraft.”
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, fire flashing in her eyes.
Good. He preferred her pissed off to nervous.
“There’s heating, but it’s slow and spotty until we’re cruising.” He held out the jacket again. “I have a spare. This isn’t about comfort. It’s about keeping you alert enough not to be a problem in the air.”
Her jaw worked. For a second, he thought she’d shove the jacket right back at him, pride holding her upright. But her fingers twitched where they clutched her coat closed.
She shivered, and her eyes lifted to his face, searching for something. Weakness?
Good luck with that.
He held her gaze. In the field calm did more than kindness.
She didn’t look away. Most people did when he went full Coast Guard on them, but she met his stare, eyes calculating. Heat slid through his chest, sharp and unsettling, like the moment before diving into rough water.
Ivy Lambourne wasn’t most people.
