“I noticed you trying to stare at me. Then I noticed your smile. Which is great, by the way. And that you didn’t join in the applause.”
“Ah, no.” Two monosyllables. Geez, how could he possibly resist her witty banter? Especially coupled with the visual treat of her completely un-special black yoga pants and forest-green fleece hoodie. Yet handsome guy had noticed her smile?
“Thanks,” he said.
Great. Now hot guy was down to a single word, too. Chloe needed to throw herself into gear. “Why are you thanking me? For not clapping?”
“Because it’s wrong. Unnecessary. I really hate all this attention for just doing my job. Those baristas over there,” he jerked his thumb toward the counter, “deserve a round of applause far more than I do.” A dimple winked into place low on his cheek. “They keep this entire neighborhood sane and safe. You know how crazed people get without caffeine.”
She put two and two together. “You’re the hero pilot?”
A shift of weight, from one leg to the other. “Just a pilot. I don’t want any spotlight or labels. I just want to save people.”
Chloe knew what a real hero looked like. She knew many. Had even been on the receiving end of that heroism. Her heroes knew that life—every life—was precious. If Rosalia’s command of the facts was true, this guy had risked his own crew’s life. That didn’t scream hero to Chloe. That screamed egotistical God complex, with a side of dangerous competitiveness. But he was hot enough that she’d give him the chance to explain. “Say that often enough and you might actually convince yourself.”
Pulling out a chair, he swung it around to straddle backward. Then he rested tanned forearms across the top. Apparently unfazed by her snark, he asked, “But not you?”
“I’m no psychiatrist, but anyone who risks so much is either chasing something or running from it. Am I right?”
“Nope.”
They were back to single-syllable sentences. That wasn’t just bad flirting, it was bad communicating. Chloe prided herself—based her livelihood, in fact—on her ability to communicate. And it wasn’t every day that a gorgeous man engaged her in conversation. So she tried again to let him bring her up to speed. “Did you put your entire crew at risk to save three women?”
A hardness settled over his face, like a clay mask drying. “Is this really what you want to talk about?”
It really was, now. Clearly this whole rescue was an itch he didn’t want scratched. That intrigued her. Chloe tapped the edge of her monitor. In a soft and hopefully persuasive tone, she said, “Don’t make me search for the newscast on YouTube. Just tell me what happened.”
“You mean you don’t know?” He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “You’re the one person in all of DelMarVa who didn’t watch the footage?”
“I don’t watch the news.”
“Ever?” He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a neighboring chair. Chloe’s mouth dried out worse than after drinking half a bottle of Shiraz. Because she had a weakness for forearms. Men’s forearms, dusted lightly with hair and corded with muscle. Just like the pair now visible on her tablemate.
They were utterly masculine. Brawny. So different from her own pale, skinny set. His arms looked like he spent his days chopping wood or hefting a Viking battle-ax. Wasn’t piloting essentially like driving a car? How’d he get so darn cut steering a plane? And just how long had she been staring at his arms without answering? Yikes.
She shook her head, probably a tad too emphatically, but it seemed like a good way to cover her lust-glaze. “No. I never watch the news. It depresses me.”
“So does paying taxes, but I still do it.”
Smart-ass. Chloe also had a weakness for smart alecks. Especially ones with eyes that crinkled at the corner when teasing. “Taxes are inevitable. Subjecting myself to an update on the local murder rate is not.”
“What about the wars and epidemics and earthquakes?”
It was all she could do to repress a shudder. Bad things happened to everyone. Hard enough to get through your own helping of daily crap. Why subject yourself to everyone else’s, too? “Like I said. They all depress me. They should depress you, too.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll give you that. But you have to be informed to be a responsible citizen.”
Easy to see through his stall tactic. What the heck was he so unwilling to share? “Tell me: what really happened up there? Was it a rescue, or a hotshot pilot being reckless?”
He stiffened. “There is a difference between a calculated risk and recklessness. When I’m in the air, the fate of my crew lies in my hands”—he stabbed an index finger against his chest and his voice lowered—“every bit as much as that of the people we’re sent out to rescue. That’s a responsibility that weighs on me more than you could ever know.”
Chloe didn’t just hear the ring of sincerity in his raw growl. She saw it, in the hunch of his shoulders, in the jut of his jaw, and in the blue flame burning in his slitted eyes. Now he truly did sound heroic. And she couldn’t wait to hear more from him. “I’m so sorry I jumped to conclusions. Truly.”
With the ease and speed of kicking off a pair of flip-flops, the serious mood slid right off of him. With a half smile, half smirk, he straightened. “I said you should watch the news. I never said you should believe all of it.” Turning his head to the side, he said, “My profile really works on television. You missed out.”
“Okay, I’ll drop it—after you tell me one thing. Is everyone safe and sound?”
“Affirmative.”
Oh, she was so totally searching the web for this story the moment he left. “Guess that does make you a bona fide hero.”
Silence. Accompanied by a brief downward twist to his lips.
“What?”
His gaze darted around the room for a bit, past the second-floor bar and the funky paintings up near the ceiling. It finally settled right back on Chloe. Disconcertingly so. Intensely so. As if a giant black hole had sucked all the other people out of the room, leaving only Chloe to keep the hot stranger company. This was way past flirtatious. It was alluring. God, was she ever lured.
He moved his hands—big hands, with long fingers—restlessly across the table. “You’d think it’d count as a win, wouldn’t you? Saving three people, three generations. Bringing back survivors and crew without so much as a scratch. But not according to my commander. He’s in your camp. Called me reckless.” He spat out the last word as though it tasted like sweaty gym socks.
“No, I took that back. I apologized,” she said in a rush.
“I know. I’m teasing. Mostly.” Again, he visibly gathered himself and sloughed off the moment of seriousness. “Let me buy you a coffee.”
“Shouldn’t I know your name first?”
“Easy to fix.” He extended his hand over her laptop. “Lieutenant Griffin Montgomery.”
Chloe tried to do a flirty hair flip. Realized too late that her hair was in a ponytail. Tried to turn her weird finger motion into a pointed question to recover. “Why does a hot pilot want to buy me coffee?”
“You’re pretty.” His gaze swished over her face like a blackboard eraser. A slow smile ended with another wink of his dimple. Chloe was sure it was deliberate. Any man who had a dimple knew exactly when and how to pop it for maximum effect. Boy oh boy, did it ever have an effect on her. “And I’m bored.”
“Aren’t you just the sweet talker?”
A twitch of his shoulder. “Hey, I’m honest. I call it like it is.”
Chloe knew she ought to appreciate that. Women hated being gamed. But calling her an alternative to boredom definitely fell under the category of damning with faint praise. Choosing words carefully, getting their exact meaning with zero hint of a shade of gray, was her whole life and livelihood.
Not everyone put that much thought or weight into it, though. And the super-sexy hero had called her pretty. Working for herself either at home, the Library of Congress reading room, or here didn’t give her wide acce
ss to interesting men. It’d be self-defeating not at least to see what happened between them once caffeine buzzed through her veins.
“Okay.” She shook his hand. Warm. Firm grip. It pretty much enveloped hers like an oven mitt. A sexy, tan, strong oven mitt. “Chloe Widmore.”
“What would you like?”
“A first edition, mint condition, of the 1899 collection of love letters between Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
He chortled. “You’re quick.” Griffin still held her hand. But he’d shifted his grip to rub his thumb back and forth across the center of her palm. The tiny gesture sent goosebumps cascading up her arm and down her torso. “I’ll make sure to remember your attention to specifics the next time I ask you a question.”
Double points for getting her little joke and for carrying it forward in his response. This was already about ten thousand percent better than her last date, with a self-important lobbyist who’d called her Kylie six times and barely looked up from his phone. “I’d appreciate it. Right now, though, I’d like a large skim cinnamon latte and a slice of cherry pound cake.”
Letting go, he raised his hands, palms facing her. “Hey, if you’re going to be a stickler for semantics, I’m going to have to point out that I only offered to buy you coffee.”
Griffin was all kinds of fun. Chloe let out a delighted laugh. “Touché. Hang on, let me dig out some cash.” She reached for her bag.
Griffin stood, grabbed her hand, and sandwiched it between his. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a date pay her own way.”
“Why? Do you have an issue with independent women?”
“Far from it. FYI, I love presents. Feel free to go buy me a Lamborghini Reventón—650 horsepower, tops two hundred miles per hour, and goes zero to sixty in three-point-four seconds. It’ll only set you back a cool $1.61 million.”
Laughter burbled up her throat. “But I can’t give you three dollars for a slice of pound cake?”
“If I’m on a date with a woman, it means she interests me. I show her that in tangible ways: opening the door, pulling out her chair, and yes, by paying.” Another long, psyche-stripping stare that made Chloe flick out the tip of her tongue to moisten her lips. “I was glib before, when I said you’re pretty and I’m bored. The truth is, you interest me, too. So let me buy you breakfast.”
“Okay.” It came out as more of a sigh than a word. Griffin must’ve gotten the message, because he strode off to the counter. Good thing her table was all the way at the back. The long walk gave her plenty of time to stare/appreciate/ogle the way his jeans showcased his tight ass.
“Fix yourself!” The hissed command came from Rosalia. It was accompanied by a less than gentle thwack on Chloe’s arm.
“What are you talking about?”
“We want you to close the deal with the handsome pilot. This is your chance to throw on some lipstick. Fix your hair.” Rosalia flicked a finger at the zipper bisecting Chloe’s fleece. “Lower that a little and show off the girls.”
They were right. She wouldn’t do the full Cinderella, but a little effort was as much a sign of returned interest as his paying for her breakfast. So Chloe yanked out her ponytail, flipped upside down, and finger-combed some volume into her brown hair. Hopefully the exorbitant amount she paid her stylist to cut the face-framing layers would prove its worth and her hair would fall into place. Give it an I-want-to-climb-into-bed-with-you tousle, instead of her previous I-just-climbed-out-of-bed limp mess. A slick of purple lip gloss, a downward tug of at least a half inch on her zipper, and Chloe was ready. Especially after the unanimous thumbs-up from the neighboring table.
Her table, however, was far from ready. All the tools of her trade filled the available space and left no room for Griffin. This was the problem with flirting at work.
God. There needed to be a reset button on this date. A way Chloe could go home, dig out her eye shadow, get dressed in an outfit that didn’t double as appropriate fashion for surviving the flu, and mousse her hair. Most important, start with coffee to engage the all-important vectors of her brain that were barely idling.
“Why are you frowning?” Griffin held two mugs in one hand, and carried a big plate loaded with pastries in the other.
What should she say? Just about anything had to be better than the truth. Concern about the new economic package up for debate in the Senate? Definitely not. In this town, you might as well wave the surrender flag in any political discussion if you didn’t work within six square blocks of the White House, the Capitol, or the Supreme Court. Weather was a reliable fallback, but relying on a fallback on the first date kind of doomed the whole thing. Chloe decided to take a chance.
“Honestly? You want the unvarnished truth?”
“I’ve known you for seven minutes. Seems a little early in the relationship, not to mention pointless, to start lying to each other.”
“Okay. An utter lack of coffee or eye shadow in my morning.”
“Well, I can solve half your troubles.” He placed a steaming mug in front of her.
“Thanks.” As he remained standing with his hands full, Chloe belatedly remembered that she’d done nothing about the crowded table. “Sorry. I’ll make some room.” She carefully reinserted the stationery into her bag.
“What’s with all the pens?”
Taking the hint, Chloe bundled them, wrapped them with the elastic from her hair, and dropped them onto a chair. “They’re for my work. Busboys and Poets is the satellite to my home office.”
“Color me intrigued.” Griff put everything down and sat. “I love the idea of working from home. Obviously, it wouldn’t work for me. The neighbors would file a noise violation if I installed a landing pad on the roof. But the whole work-in-your-underwear thing’s kind of cool.”
No underwear flashing on the first semi-date. But Chloe did toy with the zipper on her fleece, raising and lowering it slowly just a bit to tease him. “You do realize that men’s fantasies are in no way based in reality?”
“On behalf of the male species, I’ll admit we’ve got a crap ton of fantasies. Everything from owning an island tiki bar to winning the Super Bowl and getting an ace high flush in Vegas. Want to be more specific?”
Chloe took a second to picture Griffin, stripped to cutoffs, handing over hollowed-out coconuts filled with rum punch. It was a nice picture. Especially once she layered a sheen of suntan oil across his abs. She took a sip of her coffee to allow herself a few more very graphic seconds.
“Women don’t actually have pillow fights in lingerie at sleepovers.” She paused to chortle at Griffin’s gasp of outrage. “And I don’t work in my underwear all day. Aside from that heat wave two years ago when the rolling blackouts started. But I think the entire District stripped down during that.”
“So the clue is that you don’t work in your underwear. That rules out sex-toy tester, lingerie model, and spray-tan practice dummy. I give up. What do you do?”
“I’m a professional letter writer.”
He busied himself with setting out napkins, sugar packets, and stirrers. Without bothering to look up, Griff said, “No, really.”
“As you just pointed out, why would I bother lying?” The number one reaction to her career was disbelief, closely followed by laughter. Chloe should be used to it by now. Still sent a zing straight to her insecurity core every time, though. “That’s my profession.”
“For actual money?”
“Yes. I have a firm policy against accepting pigs or chickens or songs penned from the heart as currency.”
“People pay you? To write letters?” Griffin poured in three sugars, stirred, and took a huge gulp. “Sorry. I haven’t had any coffee yet, either, you know.”
“I write love letters, cover letters, apology letters. If you have any further questions, I’d suggest you peruse my website.”
“Think I will. Suddenly, the day’s looking less boring.”
There he went again. “I don’t understand. You’re a
hero pilot. Sounds like you should be at the Pentagon getting a commendation before rushing off to rescue someone else.”
“Coast Guard HQ isn’t in the Pentagon.”
“You’re not in the Air Force?”
“You can get your wings without being a zoomie.”
Chloe knew nothing about the Coast Guard. It’d sure be interesting to be educated by the lieutenant, though. “No disrespect intended. Why are you so bored, Lieutenant?”
“I’m grounded. No flying for two weeks, and then I’m chained to a desk for the indefinite future after that. It’s been strongly suggested I tap into my unused vacation time while Commander Lewis figures out what to do with me.”
“What to do with you? Do you mean you could get fired over this?”
“Last I checked, being sure of yourself wasn’t a treasonable offense. Might lose my wings, or I might get reassigned to bad duty. Or maybe the commander will come to his senses and realize what I did was nothing more or less than my job.” He broke off half of a cruller and jammed it into his mouth.
“So what do you do if you can’t fly?”
“I don’t know. It’s only been one day. Felt a little stir crazy this morning, but things are looking up now.”
Chloe’s phone vibrated. Two seconds later, the personalized ringtone of “Mamma Mia” sounded from the depths of her bag. “Oh, no.” She checked her watch. Late. Very late. Which meant the person on the other end of the phone would be a taut, anxious mess. “Griffin, I’m sorry, but I have to take this.”
“No problem.”
She cupped her hand around the phone. “Hi. I’m fine, I promise. And I’m sorry. Can you hang on a minute?” Chloe rushed all the words out. Standing up, she cast an apologetic look at Griffin. “This could last a while. I should go take it outside.”
“I’ll wait,” he said with another dimple flash.
It was entirely her fault the phone had rung, and the conversation was certain to be painful. Not to mention colored with the guilt that she’d caused the panic. Yet as she walked the length of the coffee shop, Chloe’s step was light. He’d wait. The handsome pilot thought she was worth sticking around for.
Risking It All Page 3
