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Footsteps approaching signal my father’s early arrival from work. He walks into his office and smiles as he sees me sitting at his desk.
“Good trip back, Son? Crewing told me you took the flight.”
He walks over to the sideboard, lifting a crystal decanter of whiskey, tipping it to me.
I shake my head. He pours one for himself and then sinks into the seat opposite the desk with a sigh.
“I did. Thought it was a good idea to keep my hours up.”
“How was Ava on the flight?”
“Did you know she was a nervous flyer?”And that she’s never orgasmed through penetrative sex?I grind my teeth, recalling the confessions that spilled from her lips like confetti.
“I suspect it’s because that’s how her father died… in a plane crash.”
Fuck!I lean over the desk toward him.
“Her father?”
Dad blows out a breath. “William wasn’t sure she’d get on the flight.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”Why didn’t she tell me?“Jesus.” I run a hand around my jaw. It makes sense why she was swallowing those herbal pills like candy now.
“I didn’t know you were going to be flying to New York after I suggested she help you.” My father’s eyes meet mine. “When I found out, I spoke with William. He said if she hadn’t mentioned anything, then not to. Ava’s a strong girl, Jet. It was time she did it, but on her terms.” Leaning back on his seat, he adds, “She’s been through a lot. She’ll tell you what she wants you to know.”
I nod. That’s my father’s code for, he knows more, but it isn’t his place to tell me. He’s a man of his word, and a vault when it comes to the secrets of those he cares about.
“So, Callaghan…?”
I grunt. “Still the same smug bastard.”
“I expected nothing less.”
“But he’s curious now. He’s where I need him to be.”
He takes another sip from his glass, studying me. “You’ve got this, Son. This airline has survived ever since your great grandfather started it. We aren’t going to fail now.”
“Wecan’tfail.” My shoulders tie up into knots as I pick up a framed photograph on my father’s desk. He smiles as he looks at it.
“She’ll help us.” His eyes shine as I place the picture of my mother and me as a child standing beside the Boeing Stearer Bi plane back down.
My throat dries up.
“I’ve got dinner with Jones and Carmichael tonight.”
My father snorts. “A late one for you, then.”
“Not if I can help it. I’m inviting Ava.”
I rise and walk around the desk, put a hand on my father’s shoulder, and he places his palm over the back of it, patting it.
“Good idea, Son. She’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“Doubtful,” I grumble. “The woman is—”
“A spitfire.” He chuckles, his gaze falling back onto the photograph and my mother’s long auburn hair.
I swallow the lump in my throat as he gazes at the picture.
