I put my iPad on the coffee table, having read more than enough.

There was only one reason a unit spokesman would be that detailed to the press, the same reason they used the deliberate phrasing of going above and beyond the call of duty, and with blatant disregard for his own safety.

Will wasn’t just a pilot, or the guy Morgan was obviously still in love with.

He was a fucking hero.

The kind who got awarded medals that took years to receive.

No wonder she was torn up as hell. She didn’t have to put the guy on a pedestal; he was already up there. Not only that, but the minute she realized what I did for a living, she’d push me so far away that we might as well live on opposite sides of the island. Not that I’d blame her.

I had my own hang-ups about the death of my parents—I couldn’t imagine how Morgan felt about the military, or helicopter pilots in general.

And I was both.

And given what I’d just read, I didn’t hold a candle to that guy.

Awesome.

I’d never been one for inferiority complexes. I was damn good at what I did. Hell, I was the best, and proud of it. I’d graduated top of my major at MIT, top of my class in Flight School, and guaranteed my first duty station pick. I’d completed hundreds of successful rescues—some of which were seen as unwinnable—and yet none of that compared to what he’d done.

For the first time in my life, I was forced into second place in a race I hadn’t been aware I’d been running, and the guy was miles ahead. I was literally losing to a ghost.

Since when did you want to win?

I thought about it for a second, wishing the answer was when she’d come out to the barbecue, when we’d walked down the beach earlier today, or even when she’d had the telltale signs of an anxiety attack at the truck.

But something had drawn me to her the first moment our eyes had locked on the beach and then hooked me the minute I found her dangling through her landing, cool as a cucumber.

Shit, I didn’t just like her—I wanted her, and not just in my bed, but in my life.

And I didn’t have a shot in hell with her.

…

Five days later, the ringer on my phone sounded around ten thirty p.m., and I swiped it open before checking the caller ID.

“Montgomery,” I answered.

“It’s Goodwin. We have a mayday, and the other bird is already in the field.”

“Fuck.” I stood, immediately sprinting for my stairs. “Run up the bird. I’ll be there ASAP.” I hung up, hitting the speed dial for Sarah as I dropped my clothes.