Page 11 of Handling the CEO

“Gooday to you too, Ms. Jara,” I say, getting up from under the plane, but as I lift my head, I get a great view of another pair of black high-heeled shoes, this time with little ties around her ankles. Fuck. Me.

“You know you should have steel-toed boots in the hangar, you are a walking code violation,” I continue, all the while slowly perusing her tight purple dress and stopping a groan from coming out. She must have been quite furious as she stormed in here and thinking how she got all worked up—and the crimson on her cheekbones—keeps the smile on my face. I wonder, with blood flowing to my groin just imagining it, if my bite mark is visible on her.

Randomly, she has no comeback to that, as she takes me in standing with my overalls tied around my waist, holding an Allen key, and probably with dirt all over my t-shirt.

She may be appalled by the grease monkey in front of her and that causes me to smirk at her as—despite knowing nothing can happen between us again—unbalancing her may become my new hobby.

“You got grease all over your face!” Is what comes out of her mouth, then catches herself as she reminds herself why she’s there and continues.

“This policy is full of shit. I'm not a new starter, for fuck’s sake! I’ve been working in aviation for 20 years. I don’t need handholding or trust-falls. By the way, you’re aware that most of your IT team actually is in Asia, so having me sitting in an empty office only pisses me off. And who the hell uses words like ‘hereby’ and ‘supplication’ in an email? Did you crack open a thesaurus or do you think you are in a period drama?”

Those red cheeks are back in force, and I can’t stop myself from fixating on the little spitfire’s tirade before I too catch myself and remind myself what I was supposed to reply, and that I am her boss. The people in the hangar have stopped working and watch the show with interest. I pick up a clean cloth and wipe my face.

“Policy is policy. So, unless you feel like helping me fix my plane, just trot on back to the office and continue with your keyboard warrior gig,” I press on with a dismissing wave at her.

I would have assumed that brush-off would have pissed her off even more and expected a witty riposte—or a slap—but then she grins at me and lifts her chin. It’s a clear ‘you fucked up and now you are going to pay’ signal which makes me wonder if I am about to get hit in the head with my own wrench. Walking slowly around my plane, perusing as if she owns the place, she stops and points at the harnesses hanging out.

“It’s clear why you need help here—which five-year-old wired that? My nana could do a better job and she can’t see from her left eye.”

Some technicians chuckle as my aversion to wiring is well known, but I give them a pointed look.

“It's still under repairs,” I dodge and cross my arms.

“For goodness’ sake,” she mutters and starts looking in her purse for something. Of all the things I was expecting, a connector kit and a multimeter were not anywhere near my list, but she pulls them out from a side pocket, then puts them down next to the bag.

She then goes to the locker and gets a pair of overshoes on top of her pumps while doing a ridiculous chicken dance hopping on each leg. That makes her tits bounce as she clicks the clasp in place high behind her heel. The guys—and some ladies—are suddenly even more interested in the spectacle, but I send some serious ‘I am the boss, go back to work’ vibes and they pretend to go back to doing what I am paying them for.

“You carry that in your purse?” I erupt, but she stares at me like I am an idiot. Like I am the moron to not even fathom that a millionaire programmer dressed in $1000 shoes and carrying a bag ten times more expensive would cart tools around for kicks.

“Of course I do, duh! Connector kit, multimeter, mini spanner and screwdriver set, pliers,” she enumerates. “I have been fixing planes since high school. My second degree is in avionics. I didn’t get into software for aviation on a whim, you know.” Then, she turns her back to me, gets a hair tie out of her bag, and sets her locks in a haphazard bun, showing her long neck and the top of her shoulders. To shock me even more, as if my cock isn’t threatening to burst out of my coveralls just by seeing more of her skin, she climbs the ladder and starts rewiring while humming and completely ignoring me.

I stand there speechless as the image of Dahlia Jara in a purple dress that fits her to the T, golden zipper visible running the full length of her garment, steel cap overshoes over her Jimmy Choo’s and holding a flashlight in her mouth while she fits connectors to my airplane is seared in my mind forever. The glasses she slided on her nose don’t help either.

The men—myself included—rearrange our dicks in our pants and I personally am thankful I tied the sleeves of my coveralls over my middle, hiding my bulge.

DJ

Weworkincompanionablesemi-silence for the next half an hour or so, hot jerk snapping himself out of the trance he fell in while staring at me working on the wires and carrying on his landing gear bearing change. We only talk to swap tools or for me to ask where things are, careful to put everything back in place and not at all sneak a peek at Jon tightening bolts and whatnot, muscles in his arms straining with every twist of the wrench.

When I heard he was in the hangar and I marched in full force, I was fully expecting him to be doing some audits or checking on the crew.

What I was not expecting was a member of Billy Joel’s band almost ready to sing ‘Uptown girl’—that is if any of the guys in the band would have been a 220lbs bear-man ready to hoist half the Cessna with their bare hands. His enormous, tattooed arms were straining against his white t-shirt, and his narrow waist with his overalls wrapped around it was making me want to unwrap him like a Christmas present. Maybe with my teeth, as he leans against the aircraft.

Get a grip DJ! I tell myself, as 1. He is still an asshole. You have had enough of them to last you a lifetime, and 2. We work together, and I have had enough getting out of my last workplace romance. But the satisfaction of seeing his surprise when I pulled out my tools was worth every penny as I hid a smile behind my hair-tying distraction.

I also refuse to acknowledge that the fact that he was fixing the plane by himself is even more attractive to me than how tight his t-shirt was.

Another half hour passes as I finish most of the wiring for the actuator. It was just what I needed, some relaxing physical work, while I hum 90s songs.

As Jon wants to play the strong silent type today, I chose to be the grown-up in this exchange and start a less charged dialog before we either kill each other or... something else. I climb off the step stool, put my tools down and go around the plane to where Jon is lying on his back, focused on his landing gear. I could just sink on him displayed like that and it would be glorious, I think briefly, but realign myself.

“So, what exactly is the feud with Lex Aviation? By your reactions the other day, it seemed to be a bit more than just competition. Would really like to know what I am getting into here.”

He stares at me from top to bottom slowly with those blazing green eyes that make me want to squirm under his glare, but I keep strong and start tapping my foot—that only makes him stare at my legs.

“Despite enjoying talking down to you, can you get up from there?” I ask before either of us derails the conversation again, ignoring the numerous techs in the surrounding hangar.

He is on his feet so fast, dropping the screwdriver, and again, I am shocked at how tall he is. I usually do not feel this tiny with my heels on, but this guy is towering over me every time, forcing me to look up at him, but I stop myself from cowering. He puts his arm on the wing, his T-shirt slightly running up his side, but stares over my head and around the enclosure, trying to delay whatever he wants to say. He starts rapping his fingers on the wing, so I guess he is anxious about whatever it is.

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