The Trouble with Tomboys (Tommy Creek #1)(18)

Thankful it was a bright, sunny day, she pushed her mirrored sunglasses into place, making sure they were snugly settled before she patted the side of her Cessna in welcome. Nothing short of the hand of God was going to make her take those shades off either. Under the reflective lenses, her eyes were puffy and red.

Her hair was up in a ponytail—big shocker

there—and she wore a black tank top with blue jeans. It definitely didn’t scream, come and get me, big boy, but when she glanced up and saw Grady watching her as he approached, she felt as if she were wearing the slinkiest, hottest piece of lingerie on the planet. He wanted her. It was spelled out in his clear blue eyes as his gaze slowly traveled down 54



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her body and meandered its way back up again.

Shock and animal awareness collided hard in

her gut. She still couldn’t believe he’d actually showed. It wasn’t like there would be any

commercial flights landing in their small

countryside airstrip anytime in the next millennium, but she’d wondered if he’d just rent a car or something and drive home. She’d in no way thought he’d torture himself by riding back with her in a small enclosed space for nearly a whole hour.

But here he was at eight o’clock sharp, staring at her like he wanted her for breakfast.

She sucked in a breath and tried to keep it cool, though questions stirred inside her. Did that hungry look mean he’d forgiven her? Did his presence mean he wasn’t mad? Could she hope all was okay between them?

When their gazes met, he paused, his eyes

frosting slightly. She sighed. Okay, so maybe everything wasn’t entirely kosher. Turning away quickly, she opened the clamshell cargo door.

“Come on, B.J.,” she muttered to herself as she tossed her bag haphazardly into the belly of her plane. “You’re the queen of casual. You treat everyone the same. Just imagine he’s everyone else and not Grady Rawlings.”

Yeah, imagine she hadn’t spent a third of the night pissing the hell out of him, another third of the night screwing his brains out, and then the last third of the night sobbing like there was no tomorrow because of him. Sure. No problem.

She sucked in a breath and turned back. He’d drawn close enough for her to see the tired yet wary lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked about as ready for another confrontation with her as she felt about apologizing to him, which pretty much meant neither of them would be doing any talking for the next hour.

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“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded and opened his mouth. No words

came out.

Her stomach did a flip-flop, but she amazed

herself by keeping it cool. Arching a brow, she asked,

“Yeah?”

He closed his mouth, shook his head, and then glanced away, obviously horrified with himself for chickening out.

“Then let’s head out,” she answered brusquely.

“I just finished my inspection.”

Not bothering to touch his luggage this morning, she deserted him and made her way to the cockpit.

Behind her, the cargo doors shut and seconds later, Grady slipped into the seat next to hers. A wave of déjà vu hit. Hadn’t they already played this game before? Uncomfortable silence. Awkward attempts at conversation. Stolen glances.

Except this time around, B.J. knew what he

looked like naked.

She didn’t think she could do it. There was no way she could act like nothing had happened. On the other hand, there was no way she could talk to him about what happened either. And there didn’t seem to be any kind of happy medium.

Briefly she wondered what he’d do if she politely said, Hey, would you please step out of the Cessna and find your own way home? I can’t take the sexual tension and all this guilt I’m feeling.

B.J. shook her head and started the plane.

Okay, so they were obviously going to go with the whole memory-loss plan and pretend neither of them could recall attacking each other less than eight hours ago and ripping the clothes off their bodies.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered under her

breath.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw him turn 56



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his head her way as if he’d heard her speak but hadn’t caught the words. When he didn’t comment, she blocked him and proceeded to get them in the air. Five minutes later, they’d climbed as far into the sky as she was going to go, and B.J. pushed the limits of their speed. But it didn’t help. As much as she loved going fast, today it didn’t seem to give her the rush she craved. Instead, she kept staring at Grady’s knee from the corner of her eye. His thigh was incased in tight Wranglers, and she wondered if she reached over and set her hand on it, if it’d still be as hard as she remembered it being last night.

God, she really needed to get her mind away

from that. If she was going to do anything about their evening together, she should be giving an apology instead of partaking in a little air action.

This was so not the day to join the mile-high club.

She had an awful feeling if she tried to eat crow, though, and own up to her mistake of pushing him into the sack—er, against the door, as was the case—then she’d somehow turn the tables around and demand to know why he’d ditched out on her just when things were getting good.