Accidentally in Love with the Pilot

by Teri Anne Stanley

  He hung up and went into the bathroom, where he dug around for a few minutes before coming up with a bottle of generic acetaminophen, then filled a glass with water.

  When he got back to the living room, he found Megan curled into a tight ball under the covers, clutching her phone.

  At first he was annoyed at the number of texts that had just come in. They couldn’t leave her alone for a few hours when she was sick? But then he saw the first line of a few messages that had come in the past few minutes.

  >5:43 p.m.

  Mom: Call me if you need…

  >5:44 p.m.

  Dad: I love you…

  >5:45 p.m.

  Beth: I’m sorry if Owen…

  They did love her, he’d give them credit for that.

  He hated to wake her if she was sleeping, but that fever had to come down. “Hey, can you take some medicine?”

  She uncoiled slightly, her eyes bright and unfocused in his direction. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair stuck to her face and forehead as she hesitantly reached for the tablets he held out for her. She couldn’t quite manage the glass of water, however, and he put one arm around her back for support and held it for her while she drank water and swallowed the pills.

  Damn. Was it possible she’d gotten warmer in the five minutes he’d been away from her?

  “What are you doing?” she asked when he hoisted her into his arms.

  “Taking you to your bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide and sincere, and clearly in the delusional zone of fever, she said, “You’re so pretty.”

  “Well, thanks. You’re pretty, too.”

  “I could marry you,” she said. “Not just ’cause you’re pretty. Because you’re good.”

  He didn’t quite know what to say to that. Not that it mattered. The likelihood she’d remember any of this once her fever broke was unlikely.

  “You’re here for me.”

  “Yep, I’m right here.” For the next few days, anyway. After that…he didn’t like to think about her going through this on her own.

  Helping her lie back down, he pulled the covers up over her again and went around to the other side of the bed. He kicked off his shoes and took off his shirt, then dropped his pants before crawling in the other side.

  He wrapped her now-familiar body in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better soon.”

  “I wish you liked my family more so you could stay with me, Pretty Pilot Man,” she said, and then began to snore.

  Dear God. She was sicker than he thought if she was saying shit like that, no matter how much his own heart lurched when he heard it.

  The thing was, he did like her family. They were loud, and needy, and had no sense of personal boundaries, but they were funny, and kind, and loved Megan like crazy. They made him appreciate his alone time, but he liked them.

  Her family wasn’t the problem. He was the problem. She needed a man who would be here for her, to run interference when she wouldn’t do it for herself, and to make sure she never felt abandoned. He wasn’t—couldn’t be—that guy.

  …

  When Megan woke up, she was wrapped from chest to feet in miles of fabric. She started to thrash, to try to stand up, but—

  “Hey, babe, it’s okay.” Ben stood over her, stroking her hair away from her face, concern marring his perfect forehead. “You’re having a nightmare.”

  “Oh.” That was all she could get out of her cracked, parched lips.

  He helped her sit up and untangled her from the sheets.

  When had she gotten in bed?

  “How do you feel?”

  She grabbed a tissue from the box on her nightstand and took mental inventory. “By throad and by node hurt. Whad tibe id it?”

  He checked his watch. “Seven-thirty.”

  “Oh doh.” She couldn’t have slept that late. Her to-do list was already a mile long. She sat up, and the room changed direction with her. “Ooh.”

  “Maybe you should stay in bed for a while,” Ben suggested.

  He was right, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to actually agree with that assessment. “Can I have my phone?”

  He rolled his eyes and pulled her cell from his pocket. “You can’t go anywhere tonight. Promise?”

  “Fine.”

  He held on to her phone.

  “I promise,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He handed her the phone. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea.”

  “You’re the best husband I ever had,” she croaked after him.

  With no small amount of trepidation, she swiped the screen to see what she’d missed while she’d been out of it.

  Some “Get well soon” messages, which warmed her heart, and a few more of the “Call me when you can, I need you…” variety, which usually warmed her heart, too, but right now just made her tired.

  Ben came back in with her tea just as she finished speaking to her brother.

  “Okay. I still feel pretty crappy tonight, but I’m sure I can take care of it tomorrow,” she told her brother, ending the call.

  “Here’s your tea,” he said, putting the cup and saucer—she had saucers?—on her nightstand.

  “Thanks,” she said, typing in a note before looking up to smile at him.

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked.

  “Making a note about picking up ink for Paul’s printer,” she said, finishing and closing the app.

  “Oh.” He didn’t say anything else and went back into the other room.

  In short order, he’d moved her big television into her bedroom and hooked it up, handing her the remote just as her phone rang again.

  “Hey,” she said, holding a finger up to ask Ben for a minute.

  He nodded and grabbed a few throw pillows from the couch, went around to the other side and climbed in next to her. By the time she’d finished entering the note about the errand she promised to run the next day, Ben was flipping through channels, asking if she wanted to watch Cupcake Wars or Chopped.

  She chose Chopped.

  It wasn’t until the third episode, and after she remembered to call her dad to tell him that she’d pick up his prescriptions on her way to the office supply store tomorrow, that she realized Ben was being awfully quiet. Quieter, even, than his normal non-chatty self.

  Granted, she was looking at him through coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, need to rest glasses, but she had gotten pretty used to him this past week or so, and she had the distinct impression something was wrong.

  An incoming text buzzed her phone and a muscle twitched at the corner of his eye as he stared at the television.

  “I warned you that my family means everything to me,” she said softly. “My job is my life.”

  He picked up the remote and muted the TV. After a moment, he said, “My job is my life, too. I’m a Navy pilot, and I’m a lifer. I’ll fly until I can’t, and then I’ll do whatever I can to support operations from the ground.”

  “Okay, so you understand, right?”

  He blew out a breath. “Mostly. I do my job to the best of my ability, each time I report for duty. But I don’t take my commander’s dog to the vet, pick up his dry cleaning, or buy him home office supplies.”

  So he didn’t understand. Not that she expected him to. No one ever did, but maybe since she was weakened by disease, she wanted to explain. “It’s a little different. They’re my family. You do personal errand stuff for family.”

  He nodded. “Yes. But everyone should take turns. When is it their turn?”

  She wanted to argue, but her throat tightened and tears were too close for safe speech. Another round of shivers shook her body as it fought her virus.

  He smiled and put his arm around her, pulling her head down to rest against his chest. He kissed her on the head. “It’s cool, babe, I just don’t want to see them take advantage of you. ”

  Her last thought before fading back into the haze of
respiratory infection was that she was blowing it with this guy, even though there wasn’t a chance for anything beyond this short time together. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop this implosion.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Megan woke the next morning feeling at least 10 percent improved, but the remaining 90 percent was going to have to catch up. She had work to do.

  Throwing the covers back—okay, trying to throw the covers back; when had her comforter been stuffed with sand?—she struggled to get up.

  “Hold on there,” Ben said, entering the room with more tea. He’d brewed her tea several times throughout the long, restless night, and each magical sip cleared her sinuses enough to let her sleep a little more. He handed her the cup and said, “You’re not going anywhere.”

  All she could do was glare, because she still felt like shit.

  He must have understood her expression, because he frowned sympathetically and worked to get her some more acetaminophen. “Here. Take this.” He handed her the pills and some water.

  She had a vague memory of doing this last night, but wasn’t sure. “Is this okay?”

  “I called my mom. She said pregnant ladies can take Tylenol.”

  “You told your mom?”

  He laughed. “No. I made up a story about a friend who’s writing a book.”

  She’d have shaken her head, but it hurt too much. “I can’t believe you told your mom. We don’t even know if this is real.”

  “I know. That’s why I made up a story. I…I’ll tell her the truth later, after we know.”

  She couldn’t think about that right now. At least he hadn’t called her mother. Not that her mother would have a clue what to do about an imaginary book character who might be pregnant.

  Crap.

  Her mom. Her sister. She had so much to do today. “What time is it?” She started to sit up, but was hit with a wave of dizziness.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re sick, and you’re going to stay in bed today.”

  “No. I’m not. I have to help everyone with—”

  From between his clenched teeth, he said, “Megan, you’re sick. You can barely sit up. How are you going to drive all over town running errands?”

  “I’ll be fine. I have to be. I don’t get sick.” She tried to sit up again, but his hand on her shoulder held her in place. If she’d had enough energy, she’d have been mad about that. “Please let me up. I really have to—”

  Oh damn. There she went, crying again. For heaven’s sake. She never cried. Okay, except at almost any movie. In real life, crying didn’t solve anything and made other people uncomfortable. For some reason, however, she found herself watering up every other minute when she was with Ben, and he didn’t seem bothered, just bundled her into his arms and let her have her feelings.

  But she didn’t have time to wallow around right now. There were things to do.

  Ben shook his head. “I already messaged everyone that they’d have to take care of their own personal stuff today,” he told her.

  “And they said okay?”

  He nodded. “Pretty much.”

  This took a little processing, and she suppressed the relieved sigh trying to escape her chest. “I should be mad at you for being heavy-handed and authoritarian, but I can’t seem to muster the energy. So thanks, I guess.”

  “I don’t want to run your life, I just want to make sure you survive this bout of flu.” He handed her a tissue.

  She mopped up the last of her tears and said, “Okay. No family errands for today. But there’s also a huge list of Waltzing Wallace work things to do today, too. Stuff everyone else is going to be too busy to deal with. We’re running a promotion, and I’ve got to pick up flyers from the printer and deliver them all over town—”

  He shook his head and sat next to her on the bed. The mattress dipped in a comfortable, familiar way. Who knew that feeling her bed move around would feel so good—like a hug or a pat on the back, reminding her she wasn’t alone.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You go shower. I’ll make breakfast. If you can eat something, and still insist on doing everyone else’s work for them”—he held up a hand to ward off her protest—“if there are things that can’t wait till you’re better, I’ll be your personal chauffeur and errand guy. You can sit in the passenger seat and drink orange juice and give me directions.”

  That was dumb. No way should he spend any more of his vacation taking care of her stuff. But then she thought about getting up, showering, and getting dressed. Driving across town to Jiffy Print. Carrying all of those—

  “Okay, fine,” she grumbled. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he told her. “Maybe in between this crisis and that one, we can check in on some wedding chapels.”

  She saw the reluctance in his face. He’d rather be doing wedding chapels only. But if she was perfectly honest, she was kind of glad he hadn’t found out anything yet, and she did need his help today. She stood up and felt the floor rock under her feet. “This is going to be interesting.”

  Ben stood and took her arm. “Hold on. I’ll help you, and you can take a bath instead.”

  And then he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bathroom. He set her down on the commode and bent to put the stopper in the tub. He turned on the faucet and held his hand under the stream while he waited for it to heat up.

  “A hot bath is going to feel good,” she admitted as another mild shiver ran through her.

  “Not too hot. You still have a fever.”

  “Yes, Dr. Ben.” Holding on to the sink, Megan stood to brush her teeth, trying to feel at least partially human.

  “There.” He stood, satisfied with the temperature of the water. “Come on. Let’s get you in there.”

  She started to argue, but he turned her toward him and lifted the hem of her shirt, pulling it off over her head. He was brisk and efficient, but his gaze lingered over her chest when he dropped the shirt. And she noticed the way his body brushed against her when he tucked his thumbs in the waistband of her pants.

  Oh geez. Was she really getting turned on when she could barely breathe?

  “Come on.” He guided her to the edge of the tub, holding her arm while she stepped over the side and helping her lower herself into the warm water.

  “Oh, this is lovely,” she told him, relaxing into the heat.

  He watched her with a half smile that let her know he was thinking some of the same things she was. If only she wasn’t Typhoid Megan right now. Still…

  “Will you wash my back?”

  “You’re so needy!” he said, but the look in his eyes as he dropped to his knees suggested that he didn’t mind, and maybe even cherished the opportunity to take care of her. “Lean forward.”

  She did, and heard slight splashing when he dipped the washcloth and rubbed soap into a lather. She moaned at the contrast between the blissfully hot water and rough cloth traveling over her skin. He dunked the cloth again and squeezed it over her shoulders, ran it along her neck.

  Suds slid past her collarbone to her breasts, which tightened hopefully.

  Ben’s stare was hotter than the water, but he cleared his throat. “I think I’d better go work on breakfast.”

  “You could rinse me off,” she suggested.

  He shook his head, muttering, “You need to rest,” as he adjusted his shorts on the way out of the bathroom.

  “Fine.” She picked up a washcloth and began to rinse her own darned boobs.

  …

  Eighty-four miles, three-quarters of a box of tissues, and one spilled milkshake later, Ben had gotten Megan’s errands run, while she rode shotgun, gave directions, and napped.

  “How you doin’ over there?” he asked after they’d dropped off the last batch of flyers and picked up a new microphone from the electronics store. “Are you ready to go home and hit the sack?”

  She blew her nose and stretched. “I’ve slept about five hours more than normal. I’m pr
actically raring to go.” This statement was belied by the way she rubbed her forehead. “How are you?”

  He wanted to tell her that he was a Navy fighter pilot; he could run twenty miles and then swim four hours, stay up all night lifting weights and still be able to do complex calculus, but frankly, he was ready for a break. “I don’t know how you do all of this every day,” he admitted.

  “This was an easy day,” she told him. “Sometimes I meet myself coming and going.”

  He concentrated on making a left turn across three lanes of oncoming traffic to make it into the driveway of her apartment complex and pulled into the parking space before cutting the engine and turning to look at her.

  She was busily gathering the detritus of a day spent living in the car. Stuffing stray tissues into the McDonald’s bag that doubled as a trash bag, wiping up one last drip of shake, shoving her phone and notebook into her purse. She rubbed her forehead again and stifled a yawn.

  “How are you really feeling?” he asked.

  She smiled tiredly. “I’ll survive. I can sleep when I’m dead.”

  “Not funny.” He reached across the interior of the car and felt her forehead. In spite of her nursing degree, his mother had always sworn by the “Mom-eter” method of temperature taking, and his said Megan still had a fever. “Let’s get you into bed and I’ll make some more tea.”

  “I’m going to float away,” she said, pulling herself out of the car before he could come around to help her.

  He took her things and helped her into the house, but instead of heading to bed, she flopped down on the couch.

  “You need to get into bed,” he told her.

  “Naw,” she said. “If I get in bed, I might not get out again until morning.”

  “That’s okay. You need the rest.”

  She didn’t answer, just cut him a sideways look.

  Oh no. “You’re not seriously thinking of going to the theater tonight, are you?”

  …

  Megan still felt really miserable, but Ben’s question made her want to get up and dance a jig, just to prove she could. Except she couldn’t.

  He’d been incredible today—and from what she remembered, last night. He’d taken care of her, helped her, and rearranged her schedule so she could rest. But she had to get to the theater. Every one of the Waltzing Wallaces knew their acts inside and out. They were meticulous. But she was the keeper of the schedule and the provider of cues.