Page 32 of Frequency of Attraction

Quinn gave an exaggerated eye roll. “If a kitten walked by you right now, you’d pick it up and snuggle it. Don’t deny it. And don’t make a joke aboutma chatte,” she added. Vadim clamped his mouth closed, smiling. “You listen with your whole being when talking with your team, or when I’m complaining about my day. The biggest tattoo on your body is of an angel-faced baby you’ve never met.”

His jaw twitched.

“I’m sorry about the article, but we’ll let people know the real you. And,” she dragged out the word in her singsong accent, “come up with a way to celebrate your certification.”

Vadim resumed walking. “I want to celebrate by stripping lingerie off your body. And not that frilly shit. Sexy shit.”

Quinn struggled to keep up again. “Why do men like lingerie? I don’t get it.”

“Are you saying no?”

“Have I ever said no to you?” she retorted.

Vadim chuckled. No, she had not.

Five hours later, he had passed the FAA certification exams. The pin had been affixed to his flight suit by the instructor. He was a pilot again, finally. His soul soared, weightless. He hadn’t let Tate, Thomas, or himself down. Tate hadn’t even looked relieved when Vadim had climbed out of that plane grinning. He’d looked as if he’d expected a successful result, and Vadim hadn’t known how badly he’d needed that calm reassurance. Thomas, too, had just said, “Fucking-A right,” clapped him on the back, and walked away actually smiling.

And now Vadim wanted a goddamn drink, so he made his way to The Saloon, Victory’s only bar. He chose the sole available barstool, next to a woman in fitted scrubs who looked engrossed in her phone, like another woman he knew. He rested his elbows on the counter as a bartender wandered over.

“I wondered when we’d see you in here.”

Vadim stared him down. “Excuse me?”

“The Partying Pilot, right?” the young man qualified. “I have to say, after reading that article, I was a bit offended you hadn’t come in before.”

Vadim narrowed his eyes, but the man’s smile looked friendly.

“First drink’s on the house for going through that shit.”

“Cool. Give me a beer. Something strong and local.”

“You got it.” The bartender glanced at the woman next to him. “And I know what you want.”

“Thanks, Trav.” The woman in scrubs turned toward Vadim. “I hope that article didn’t upset you. We all know Jerry is a tool.”

Vadim pivoted his body and attention to the woman. Attractive, late thirties, slightly haggard, but who wasn’t at the end of a long week? But he wasn’t interested. He was still figuring out what made Quinn tick. Or come, as it were. He was saving all his extra energy for her.

“I’m not hitting on you,” the woman added. “I’m just stating facts. I had a long, shitty week, and I just want a drink before I go home to cuddle with my cat. And I mean that literally. I have a cat named Gus.”

Vadim chuckled. “I’m Vadim. Who are you?”

She smiled. “I’m Lisa.”

“What made your week so shitty, Lisa?”

Several years seemed to creep into her posture. “I gave a patient a cancer diagnosis. I had to explain to a teenager that a banana could not get her pregnant even if she didn’t use a condom while ‘playing with it,’ and I had to lance a hemorrhoid the size of a grape in someone’s ass. I’m a physician’s assistant, if I didn’t mention.”

“Well, fuck. And I thought I had a bad week.”

“A few paragraphs sharing all your business with the world? Nah. Try rooting around a geriatric arse.”

“Yeah, I’d take the article over the hemorrhoids.” He paused. “It’s notallmy business. I did train to be an cosmonaut.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to defend himself.

“I believe you. OrbitAll wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t worth a damn.”

The bartender reappeared, sliding a dark beer across the counter to him. “Local, strong, malty. I hope you like it.” He handed Lisa a clear cocktail stuffed with limes. “Moscow Mule for you.”

“Thank you.”

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