Page 19 of The Trouble With Tomboys (Tommy Creek 1)

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.

“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 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.

Okay, so she knew why, and she didn’t blame him a lick. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Gritting her teeth, she commanded herself to stop thinking about it altogether. There wasn’t going to be any kind of resolution if she tried to bring up the topic, not that she wanted to anyway. So, ignoring the tension was going to have to be her best bet. But, hell, there was no way she could ignore it, especially when he shifted in his seat and stirred the air around them, rustling up his scent so her body responded and the insides of her thighs tingled.

B.J. couldn’t do it any longer. She glanced over. “Want to learn a couple of things about flying?” she blurted out, not even realizing what she was going to ask.

He lifted his face. His blue eyes showed surprise, but other than that, she couldn’t read anything. The nerves in her guts knotted and then tightened painfully. She ripped her gaze away.

“The basic concept is pretty simple,” she started in, ignoring his lack of response and the growing ball in her stomach. She needed to get her mind off. . .well, you know. And nothing could grab B.J.’s attention like talking planes.

So, she talked planes.

“There’re four forces at work when flying. Lift, weight, thrust and drag.”

Oh, God. Did she just say thrust?

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