Page 12 of Knocked Up in Alaska

Chapter Four

Lilah shouldered a tray loaded with dinner orders and wove her way through the Tuesday night crowd at The Goose to the table Wyatt “Wingnut” Jensen shared with Maddox “Mad Dog” Douglas. Less than a week after fleeing the inn, and thanks to a certain tall, dark, white-knight of a bar owner who’d taken her in, given her a shoulder to cry on, and a safe place to regroup—not to mention gainful employment—she was back to almost where started, this time without so much to hide.

Wing rubbed his palms together and flashed his eager smile as she placed a towering Ultimate Burger and a mountain of fries in front of him. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “Everything’s bigger in Alaska.”

“Everything except your dick,” Mad quipped and stole a fry from his tablemate before she could put his Blue Cheeseburger and fries in front of him.

Lilah dipped her chin to hide a smile, then followed Ford from the corner of her eye as he wove through the bar with drinks for a table. While she didn’t move a muscle, it felt as if millions of microscopic molecules inside her shifted his way. An inappropriate but not entirely new sensation. Somewhere between the shoulder to cry on—the very strong, broad shoulder—and the safe place to regroup, and…him…she couldn’t quite get a leash on herself. No. Just no. With a mental head shake, she took a breath and turned her attention to her customers. It had to stop.

“A smart person doesn’t insult the man responsible for keeping his plane in the air,” Wing observed, arching a dark brow at Mad. As the lead mechanic at Captivity Air and Freight, Lilah supposed he had a point. “Anyway,” Wing went on, smirking through the new beard coming in strong over the lower half of his face, “last night that redhead you went out with Saturday seemed to think my dick was bigger and better than that pathetic piece of equipment you tried to use on her.”

The blue-eyed, blond pilot simply tipped his clean-shaven face toward the ceiling and laughed. “Nice try, grease monkey, but I never touched the redhead. I was kinda busy with your mom last Saturday.”

Smiling despite herself, Lilah started to ask if she could bring them anything else, then froze when she caught a familiar figure walking briskly through the lobby. Speaking of moms. Her heart pounded with painful force as hers strode past The Goose without so much as a glance toward the bar and continued straight out the door of the inn. Seconds later, she passed by the sidewalk-facing windows and out of sight.

All of the sudden, the heavy, grease-and-beer air pressed too close. Her stomach took a troubling slide toward her shoes. For a second, she flashed back to the bouts of morning sickness she’d battled in her first trimester and feared she might repeat the experience.

Someone tugged gently at her free hand. She looked down to find Mad staring up at her. “You okay, Lilah?”

“I…um…” She forced herself to swallow and nodded, relieved when the nausea subsided. “I’m all right.” Working up a smile, she offered it to Wing as well, who was looking at her like a particularly worrisome engine part. “Can I bring you another round?”

Before either man could answer, Trace pushed open the street-side door, held it while Izzy and Bridget walked in, and followed behind. Bridget beelined over the rough-hewn planked floor to the empty four-top inches from Wing and Mad. “Next round’s on Trace,” she announced, looking smug and satisfied as she dropped into the chair closest to Wing.

“Shit.” He smiled back at her. “You beat his time? Made the run from Ketchikan in less than forty?”

“By a second,” Trace grumbled and held out a chair for Izzy.

“The margin doesn’t matter. It’s still a win.” Bridget pointed to someone over Lilah’s shoulder, her amethyst eyes bright with victory. “Am I right, Ford?”

Lilah’s heart rate stumbled when he drew up beside her and rested his big hand casually on her shoulder. “If you consult the board”—he jerked a thumb in the direction of the chalkboard behind the bar where they kept track of local wagers—“I think you’ll note no spread to cover. Bridget wins, and since the rest of us knew better than to bet against her, we win as well.” To Trace he said, “What am I pouring?”

The big man pointed to Mad and Wing’s half-finished drinks. “A round of whatever they’re having.”

“You got it. Be right back.” He started to step away, but she turned and tucked her empty tray under her arm. “I’ll get it.”

His lips defaulted to that faint smile that did funny things to her insides. “I was just about to send you on your break.”

Of course he was. She restrained herself from sighing. The man sent her on at least one break per hour. As a member of his waitstaff, she feared she wasn’t fully pulling her weight, but at least she wasn’t still his houseguest. The manager of The Castaway had contacted her about a vacant unit in need of some exterior repairs. Over Ford’s strident objections, she’d snapped it up for a reduced weekly rate. Ultimately, he’d respected her need to move to a space of her own, but with work time now the only outlet for his protective instincts, she found herself taking a lot of breaks. “I’ll take ten after I bring the round.”

“Okay,” he relented and pulled another chair up to the end of the Shanahan table, “but make it a full fifteen this time.”

She waited until she walked past him before she gave in to the eye roll. By the time she brought the beers to the table, Archer had joined the group and initiated a lip lock with Bridget that by Lilah’s inexpert judgment packed enough heat to burn the bar down. Seeking a diversion, she looked away, and her eyes met Ford’s. Held.

Her face suddenly felt too warm and her pulse too jumpy. Oh God. Not again. The conversation evolved to potential next wagers while she struggled to do her job and also get her system stabilized.

“Break,” Ford murmured as she leaned in to place a pint in front of him. The tickle of his breath over her ear did nothing for her racing blood. A scent she recognized as his shampoo—one of those little details she picked up after sharing quarters with him over the weekend—tempted her closer. Was hummingbird-in-flight the new normal for her heart rate?

“One second,” she gasped and hurried behind the bar to fill another pint for Archer, filled a big glass of water for herself, grabbed her tote bag from under the bar, and made her way back to the table. Archer’s obviously talented mouth formed a silent thank-you when she put the beer in front of him. Ford stood, grabbed his beer, and indicated with an index finger for her to take the empty seat. She did as he’d instructed and ignored how her skin tingled beneath her clothes thanks to the way his body heat lingering in the patina of the wooden chair. Then, when he snagged an empty chair from a nearby table, placed it next to her, and sat, all those tingling cells gravitated toward him like metal shavings to a magnet.

Pregnancy hormones were making her antsy.

To push past it, she set the timer on her phone for fifteen minutes and then pulled her newest attempt at self-sufficiency out of her tote. All that cute, snuggly baby gear featured online turned out to be stunningly expensive. She’d have to shell out some of her limited savings for a crib, a car seat, and other must-haves, but she didn’t necessarily need store-bought everything. So far, she’d managed to knit about four inches of a baby blanket from soft, variegated green-yellow yarn Annie Watkins had helped her pick out from the General Store. Fifteen dollars for needles and yarn versus fifty bucks plus shipping made for an easy choice.

She listened with half an ear to the usual airfield rundown—early-season tourists asking where to go to pet the bears or ride a moose, cargo runs through rough weather, Mad’s cockpit flirtations with an air-traffic controller out of Juneau who always shuffled him to the top of the takeoff order.

“Whatcha got there, Lilah?” Wing asked.

She spread the fruits of her labor on the table. “YouTube’s teaching me how to knit. I’m starting with a baby blanket.”

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