She freezes.

“You can’t park here.”

Unbelievable.

The woman is late, drives like a banshee, obstructs a runway, then attempts to park next to the helipad. I point to the row of cars thirty feet away.

Alex huffs loud enough for me to hear it, as if huffing is an acceptable form of communication, and slams the door closed. A ridiculous white daisy bounces in her cup holder as her ancient vehicle backs up, then rolls forward. Her back right wheel is about half the size of her other wheels. I force my gaze away from the unsafe tire, the one that should be used to drive to acquire a replacement.

It’s conceivable she had a flat tire, but given she just drove down the runway, it’s more likely she’s using her spare as a permanent tire. Unreal. Sullivan’s family friend is unreal.

One man and a flight instructor are two hangars down inspecting a Cessna. The man waves before heading back into the small office building with metal siding. Overall, a slow afternoon for the facility.

Twenty feet away, on the other side of the hangar, sits my helicopter. All I need is my cargo.

Cargo I apparently shouldn’t have agreed to fly.

Dr. Rolfe’s long legs cover ground at a rapid pace. Her wheeled suitcase bounces along behind her. A tan leather tote bag hangs from her shoulder. She traded her black interview suit for slim dark jeans and a blazer, but her jewelry and cream V-neck top remain the same. She wears ankle boots with a couple of inches on the heel, which raises her nose to my chin. I reach out for her bag, and she shuns me with a shake of her head.

“I’ve got it.”

No need to argue with a woman who knows her mind. “Let’s go.”

In the helicopter, I hand her a headset. She fumbles with the harness.

“I’ll do it,” I command.

Her chin juts out and lips flex. I can’t see those green eyes behind her shades, but I recognize defiance. Not on my plane.

I jerk the end of the strap, tightening the harness. I don’t miss her quick inhale. Her V-neck blouse slips, dipping to curve around the swell of her breast. Color flushes her pale skin. I check the strap over her waist. I grit my teeth and execute laser focus on the harness, not her gaping blouse, so we can get out of here.

The safety rating on my helicopter ranks as top of the line. I don’t expect to fall out of the sky on this trip. But if she plans to fly with me, her harness will be buckled correctly.

Her chest stills, as if she can’t breathe in my presence. Tough. With one last check on the buckles, I move back into my seat. I slip my headphones on and speak into the mouthpiece as I buckle my harness.

“You comfortable?” In my irritation, it is conceivable I buckled the harness too tightly.