Accidentally in Love with the Pilot

by Teri Anne Stanley

  It wasn’t until the air-conditioning noise broke off and murmured, “Let’s sleep a little longer,” that she realized the reason she felt so nice was because of the big hot man curled up behind her, one hand cupping her breast. She gave an experimental wiggle, and there was a definitely pleasant ache between her legs, a slight soreness in her nipples that suggested a night well spent.

  The arm surrounding her tightened, sending languorous waves of arousal through her body. She didn’t think she could do anything about that, however, because her limbs felt like Jell-O. As though she’d come hard in the past hour or two. Several times.

  She did, however, need to get up. “Excuse me,” she whispered, carefully removed the hand, and staggered to the bathroom.

  She shut the door and ran water in the sink while she stared at herself in the mirror. Her focus was questionable, but those mascara smudges were nice and bold. Maybe she should have taken off her makeup before bed. She grabbed a washcloth from the neatly folded stack and shoved it under the running water and then—wait. Something was off about her bathroom. She never had a neatly folded stack of washcloths next to her sink. She squeezed the excess water from the cloth and looked around. She also never had cute little bottles of shampoo and conditioner next to cute little soaps… Reality finally broke through the mental haze.

  She was in a hotel.

  Where she’d just crawled out of the bed she’d been sharing with…with…

  Everything came rushing back to her. The pilot. The sweet, kind of shy guy with the heartbreaking smile. He’d delivered her crazy birthday cake and stayed to have drinks with her in the bar. They’d talked about everything under the sun for a long time. Until Bobby the bartender had kicked them out. She remembered asking him if he liked waffles and calling an Uber so they could go for breakfast and then…sex. Amazing, no-holds-barred, multiple-orgasm sex like she’d never had before.

  Whoa. But how had they gotten from Waffle Palace to her on her back, and his face between her thighs, intense amber eyes gazing up at her as she came? She flashed on his taste while she went down on him, the sexy way he asked, “Is this what you want? Do you want me inside you?” The sound of his groan when he rose above her, sliding inside…and then, nothing. Zilch. Nada. Until she’d awakened a moment ago.

  Knock knock knock.

  “Megan? You okay in there?”

  She jumped. Drunken memory interruptus. “Um, yeah?” She took a few deep breaths, trying to steady her racing heart. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “No problem.”

  God, he sounded as raspy and delicious this morning as her hazy memory from last night. She needed a drink of water and had to clear the carpet fuzz out of her mouth. She helped herself to the tube of toothpaste sticking out of the shaving kit on the counter and used her finger to swipe it around her mouth as best she could. She washed her face. Her hair was a mess, but there was no hairbrush or comb in the shaving kit on the counter, because Ben had a clean-shaven head.

  She used her fingers to comb through her own wavy mop the best she could and then could procrastinate no more. She had to leave the loo. Except she was completely naked, and as much as she wanted to stride out of this bathroom and fill in the blank memories with fresh ones, maybe he didn’t feel the same. She hadn’t had enough one-night stands to be sure of the protocol. Did one wake up and resume naked time until someone had to leave? She needed armor against potential awkwardness. Easily removed armor, in case he did feel the same…

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the kind of hotel that had fluffy bathrobes for guests, but it did have great big towels. She grabbed one and wrapped it around herself tightly like a mummy. Ready to face the morning, she put her left hand on the doorknob, stared down at that hand, and said, “Oh shit!”

  Her husband knocked on the door again. “Megan? You okay?”

  A surge of adrenaline helped to clear any remaining alcohol fog. She somehow plastered on a smile, secured her towel toga, and opened the door.

  “Hey, good morning,” he said.

  Wowza. She promptly forgot whatever it was she’d just been freaking out about, because he was even better looking than she remembered. As she took him in, leaning there against the wall next to the bathroom door in nothing but miles of bronze skin and a pair of camouflage boxer shorts, her libido picked right up where it had been a minute ago

  He smiled. “I’m more than happy to let you ogle me a little longer, but I really need to take a leak.”

  “Okay!” She nodded, then stepped left to move past him, but his shoulders took up way more than half of the space and even after he turned sideways, they brushed against each other, and oh jeez… Happy joyful morning man parts nearly skewered her.

  He shot her a—shy? embarrassed?—smile from beneath his lashes, and she stifled a whimper. The man was off the charts.

  The door shut behind him while she began to remember a little more from last night, which wasn’t little at all. Ben, above her, muscles gleaming in the dim light of dawn peeking through the heavy curtains as he stroked her from neck to knee and back, stopping partway…

  Her corresponding parts clenched in happy memory and tried to convince her that she didn’t need to get dressed, but maybe she should make sure her stuff was accessible just in case he started making “Well, it’s been fun, but you might want to be leaving now” noises.

  Except on the way to find her clothes, she noticed a bouquet of white daisies, tied with white lace ribbon, wilting on the dresser. And that ring on her hand reminded her she had forgotten more than just some details about good sex.

  The bathroom door slammed open and she turned to find a slightly frantic…sailor/pilot/hot military guy skidding into the room.

  “Do you have one of these?” he demanded, holding up his left hand and pointing to the gold band on his ring finger.

  A wedding band.

  Just like the one she held up to show him. “Yep, I seem to have one, too.” And then she stepped back so he could see the flowers on the dresser. “I take it your memories of last night are a little fuzzy, too?”

  “More like a broken mirror with significant chunks missing.”

  She nodded. That was a good metaphor.

  They stood there for who knew how long, staring at each other. His light brown eyes had a fleck of blue in one iris, and he had a tiny scar next to his right eyebrow. Even frowning with concentration, he made her want to run her fingers over his lips, to coax him to kiss her, to move those lips—

  “Oh boy,” she said. “I remember a few things.”

  His frown softened, and his gaze heated. “I remember a few things, too.” He took a step toward her, and her breath stuttered in her chest.

  He was big and hot, and he smelled so good. She wanted to lick him. To rub herself against his body. He raised his hand. He was going to touch her—

  A foghorn sounded, inserting reality in the form of a text message. That would be her brother Paul needing something earth-shattering, like directions for the remote.

  She ignored it for the moment as Ben’s hand, gold band glinting dangerously, dropped back to his side. She said, “I should get dressed, and then maybe we should talk about this?”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll order food. You like omelets?”

  Nice. He was thoughtful, her husband of four or five hours.

  “I like food that someone else cooked,” she told him, and there went that warm zingy thing again when he laughed. “Oh, and orange juice. I like orange juice.”

  The ching ching of a bicycle bell sang out from the floor next to the bed. That would be her sister. Damn. She dug her phone out of the pocket of her inside-out jeans, needing to be dressed to deal with her family, even over the phone. Her thong was in the right leg, and she shoved it in the pocket for now. She did her best to shove her legs into the pants and pull them up, under the edge of the towel.

  She gave up on the towel. Letting it go, she turned her back to Ben and started to fight her way into
her bra and shirt with her free hand. Her phone played “Stand by Me” before she even had a chance to see the text. Great. “Hi, Beth.”

  Her sister’s voice was high-pitched with excitement. “Megan? Where are you? Are you okay? I stopped over, but you’re not at home, and I need to borrow some blue hair dye.”

  Well, how about that. She wasn’t at home, where everyone would normally expect her to be. Was she okay? She was confused, and starting to feel her hangover, but turning to see Ben watch her as he ordered breakfast, she had a strange feeling she was okay. She’d had sex with a total stranger, and possibly even married him, but he was ordering her food. He was a good guy. He no doubt even used extra-high-quality condoms, because he was just that—

  “Beth, I’ll call you later.” She pushed the end button on her sister’s protests and examined every inch of the window side of the bed. And then came around to check the other side, nudged Ben out of the way with her hip, and opened the drawer in the little table.

  He was still on the phone, but watching her every move with gathered eyebrows as she ransacked the room, examining every nook and cranny, even digging through the duffel bag full of shorts and T-shirts on the stand by the door.

  “Yes, thanks,” he told the person on the other end of the phone before hanging up.

  She went into the bathroom, upending the wastepaper basket.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

  She ignored him for the moment, pushing aside a tissue to see— “There it is!”

  “What?” he asked.

  She pointed at the used condom and wrapper. “I was just checking to make sure we were responsible.”

  “Of course we were,” he said, clearly affronted. “I’ve never not used a condom.” He grabbed a fresh tissue from the box on the counter and bent down to pick up the mess she’d made on the floor.

  “Oh, that’s good,” she said, a little embarrassed at her own panic.

  “Aw, shit,” Ben said, staring in horror at the limp membrane.

  “What?” she asked, trying to see what he was so upset about.

  “It’s broken.”

  …

  The sight of a wedding band had shocked Ben’s morning wood into submission, but the equipment failure sent Ben’s boys scrambling to return to his body cavity. He had no memory of the condom breaking, and there was no evidence of another, not even an empty package. What the hell had they been drinking last night?

  It was a little late to switch to soda now. What mattered was the woman with the enormous eyes chewing her bottom lip. His…wife?

  She sank to the edge of the bed. “Please tell me that Elvis’s cape broke after he left the building. Do you remember?”

  No. He didn’t. He remembered talking to Megan last night, more than the total conversations he’d ever had with women who weren’t his relatives. They’d talked in the bar, in the cab on the way to the waffle place, in the waffle place, and then…nothing.

  At least until the replay skipped to the hotel room door shutting behind the two of them. They’d fallen onto the bed, laughing and talking and kissing and stripping, and a whole lot of moaning, and touching, and— Oh yeah—

  But there were blank spots. Surely he’d remember a broken condom. He practically had no glove, no love tattooed, in glow-in-the-dark ink, on the insides of his eyelids. But while he remembered touching her, tasting her, laughing with her, the sound of her voice calling out as she came, he couldn’t for the life of him remember being inside her. And he’d have noticed the change in contact.

  Last night—although it was more like this morning, since they hadn’t even left the bar until after two—had been amazing. He would love to touch her some more. To send her back to crying out his name. That he’d never forget.

  Megan watched him with dark eyes, practically burning him up, even as she worried that lip with…worry. He wanted to make love to her again, but even more, he wanted to make sure she was okay. He reached to smooth away the little vee that formed between her eyebrows, to reassure her. When he stroked his fingers over her forehead, she closed her eyes and leaned into him. He felt…needed, and that felt nice.

  He was about to put his arm around her when a horn sounded—the kind with the big squeeze ball, like clowns used. She ignored it and shoved the phone into her pocket while he moved a few inches away to give them both some space, because he couldn’t think when he was touching her.

  “Soooo…” He had to ask the question, but just the idea stuck in this throat. He swallowed a couple of times before managing, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

  She stared at him, eyes wide. “Um, I doubt it?”

  “That doubt sounds doubtful.”

  “Yeah, I know. I really don’t think so, but…” She looked up at him. “Listen, I don’t want you to worry about this. I won’t hold you responsible or turn into a rabbit-boiling stalker.”

  “I’m not worried about that. You don’t look anything like Glenn Close, and I’m sure as hell not Michael Douglas.”

  She laughed, but her words were like cold mud splattered on his sense of honor. He remembered watching his father walk away and the utter helpless devastation he’d felt when he understood the man was never coming back, the way his mother had cried every night for months. He imagined Megan as a child, taken from the only mother she’d ever known and raised by a new family. No matter how wonderful the Shuttlekrumps were, that had to leave some scars. No way was he going to cause any kid—or mother—that kind of uncertainty and pain.

  He cleared his throat. “I am responsible. If there’s”—he swallowed—“a baby. I’m not bailing. Not like—” my father. Or yours. He thought about her term, “sperm donor.” Nope. He shook his head. “If there’s a baby…if you have a baby, I need to know, so I can be…whatever you need from me.”

  Her eyes softened and took on a sheen of moisture. “Wow. You are…” She trailed off, and he’d never know what she was about to say because a knock at the door announced breakfast. She jumped to her feet. “I’ll get it.”

  He followed her to the door and signed the bill while she directed the guy with the food cart. By the time he had a tip calculated and signed the slip, she’d unloaded the tray onto the little table in the corner of the room, where she carefully laid out the napkins and silverware like this was some sort of formal banquet. She also shook like a leaf.

  He reached for her wrist, tugging gently until she showed him her anguished face.

  “I’m scared,” she admitted, voice cracking.

  For someone who was normally tongue-tied and avoided drama, Ben was amazingly calm and collected. He guided Megan onto his lap, her soft backside a perfect fit for his thighs. He wrapped her in his arms and tucked her head beneath his chin. “I’ll do whatever you need,” he repeated.

  She popped up and moved to the other side of the table. “I appreciate how cool you’re being. And how noble. If there is a baby, I won’t stop you from being involved if you want to be, but I also won’t hold it against you if you change your mind and walk away. I just ask that when—if—the kid gets here you won’t be wishy-washy. Don’t be one of those ‘I promise I’m coming this weekend, but don’t actually show up’ kind of dads. If you think you might bail—don’t even come around.” She sat down and started cutting into her omelet with a fork.

  “Absolutely not.” He remembered her words from last night, leaving is bad. He’d be in this kid’s life no matter what. But—he swallowed. “I’m gone a lot, but if there’s a baby, I’ll spend all my leave with him or her.” “Leave.” There was that word. His “leave” and her “leave” had different meanings, and she’d already told him that her version held mixed emotions for her. Leavers are bad… It would be great if you’re gone that much.

  “Okay.” She nodded. “We’ll work it out.”

  “Okay.”

  Suddenly all business, she said, “Now. About this other elephant in the room,” then laughed. “You know, I don’t go out and party mu
ch—I’m almost always working—but the few times I do go out, I worry about how many people are walking around with their phones recording every stupid thing that everyone ever does and posting it on social media.”

  It took him a moment to follow her subject change from accidental babies to accidental marriages.

  She went on. “Not that I want to see video of us, um…being irresponsible, but wouldn’t it be nice if we had some sort of record of the past twelve hours or so?”

  They stared at each other for a long beat, then grabbed for their phones.

  “Dead.” He pushed a few buttons, but wasn’t surprised when it didn’t respond. “You got anything on yours?”

  “No proof of condom sensibility, but there’s this.” She held out her phone to him. He hit the little triangle and a shaky arm’s-length video of the two of them, bloodshot and grinning, began. Megan’s face moved out of the frame a little as she turned to someone and said, “Okay, say it again.”

  And the off-camera voice said, “You may kiss the bride.”

  And there, recorded for posterity, was a selfie of Megan and him in a lip-lock to end all kisses.

  “Wow.” Megan took her phone back and replayed the video. “It looks like maybe we really did get married.”

  “Although we don’t remember,” he pointed out.

  “True.” She stared at him, nonplussed.

  He was right there with her. It was time to pull out his piloting crisis skills. “We’ve got two issues here. How long before you know about the pregnancy?”

  “Two or three weeks, I think.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait and find out. Second thing—we probably got married last night.”

  She nodded. “It looks that way. What do we do about that? Is there some kind of a return policy? Like, if we change our minds, we’ve got seventy-two hours to renege on the deal?”

  “I don’t know. This is your state. But I bet we can go back to the wedding place and find out if we really got married, and if we did, what to do about it.”

  “Good idea!” She jumped to her feet, as though ready to run out and talk to whatever justice of the peace had said, “Kiss the bride.”