He’s still there. I can feel his eyes on me.
I huff as I lay the first of six canopies out on the ground and inspect it for any sign of tears or any seams that might need to be re-stitched before I can repack it in its rig.
“Who pissed off Malone?”
I look over to where Travis stands with his sleeveless shirt on, his baseball cap bent at the brim, and a red rag fisted in one hand, and I am thankful that my sunglasses hide the glare I shoot him. The sweet, old man who manages the airstrip doesn’t deserve my vitriol, and yet, his comment has fanned the flames of the irritation Grant is causing.
“How do you know Grant?” I ask.
“Everyone knows the Malones in this town. They’re as much a part of Sunnyville as the grapes that grow on the hills around here.” He adjusts the brim of his cap.
“For the record, I didn’t piss off Malone.” I walk to the other side of the canopy, which is starting to billow from the breeze, and force myself not to rush through the inspection. These chutes stop our falls, so it definitely doesn’t pay to be hasty.
“If you didn’t piss him off, why’s he been sitting at the end of the runway for the past hour?”
“He is? I didn’t notice.” I don’t even venture to look the way of his police cruiser where it sits blaringly out of place because I refuse to give either man the satisfaction of knowing I have been paying attention.
“Yep. Right out there.” He lifts a chin and eyes me as he tries to figure out if I’m lying or not.
“Humph.” At this point, the less I say the better.
“D’ya want me to go find out? Maybe he’s interested in jumping. Having a Malone jump here might be good for business.”
“Nah. He’s not worth the wasted breath. Thanks for the offer, though.” I squat and begin the methodical process of packing the first canopy into its pack under the scrutiny of both men. Each minute that passes only serves to annoy me further, until I’m huffing every few seconds to show some kind of resistance.
“Well then . . .” Travis’s boots scuffle against the pavement until they are in my eyesight, prompting me to look up at him. “I put a to-do list on your desk. It isn’t too long, but . . . it has to get done.”
“I’ll take care of it in a bit. Thanks.” I focus again on the task at hand. After a minute, I hear him turn and head back inside, leaving me alone to ignore Grant.
Over the next hour, I work on the next five packs, well aware of Grant’s presence. Reminded of the kiss we shared. Of the demands he laid down. Of the frustration I feel every time I think of him—which is a lot—when I don’t want to think of him at all.
I don’t get handled. I don’t get played.
Even being firm in those beliefs, the scene from the bar plays in my mind over and over again. By the time I’m done, I’m hot, I’m tired, and I’m irritated to all hell.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Leo asks as I slam into the front office of Blue Skies, stomping my feet like a tantruming toddler.
“Don’t ask,” I grumble as I walk right past him and into my office, shutting the door behind me. He stares at me through the glass door, completely confused, so I turn to stare out the window, which of course directly faces where Grant is parked.
For the love of God.
My phone is in my hand, and I’m pushing send without thinking this through.
“Officer Malone.”
“Don’t give me your ‘Officer Malone’ bullshit. How about Officer Stalker? Or Officer Asshole? It looks like you’re a real crime fighter, sitting out there at the end of an empty runway.”
His chuckle fills the line and grates on every nerve that isn’t already shredded. “You never know where a crime may occur.” There’s a slow, relaxed drawl to his voice.
“Huh.”
“Like it sure is a damn crime how good you look in that flight suit when you bend over and fold those parachutes.”
I click end on the phone and stew as I pace the short distance of my office like a caged animal. He’s going to sit out there for over two hours and that’s all he has? The jerk.
I hit send again and grit my teeth harder with each and every ring. He finally picks up on the fourth one, right before it goes to voice mail.
“Seriously? That’s the best you can do? You’ve gotta work on a better line than that.”
“I knew you’d call back.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“Perhaps.”
“Definitely.” I sit in my chair and then stand again, too antsy to stay still. “Why have you been sitting out there all day? If it’s just to annoy the hell out of me, you’ve succeeded. Whatever else it is you’re trying to do, it isn’t going to work,” I lie.
“Mmm.”
“What’s that supposed to—Oh . . .” The light bulb comes on. “I see what you’re doing here, Malone.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re trying to get the upper hand.”
“I am?”
“Quit answering everything I say with a question, damn it.” I throw my hands up in exasperation.
“Why does that bug you?”
“Grrr. You just did it again!”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, but I’m not going to play into his question carnival again.
“I’m not letting anyone control me or any situation regardless of what one particularly annoying male may think.”
His chuckle fills the line again, and I hate that with as mad as I am at him, it’s still sexy as hell. “You sure about that?”
“Damn sure.”
“You might want to double-check that hill you’re willing to die on.”
“Why’s that?” I narrow my brow as I stare out at his cruiser.
“Because I’ve already gotten what I came for.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You to be thinking about me.”
The line goes dead.
And before I can make it out of the building, temper leaving smoke in my wake, his cruiser is already pulling out of the driveway onto the main highway.
“You to be thinking of me,” I mutter in disgust.
Because he’s right.
I am.
And hell if he didn’t just get the upper hand.