Page 55 of Stalkers Anonymous

Chewy watches me intently as I stand in front of my closet in nothing but a towel, deliberating what to wear.

“What do you think?” I ask him as he scampers up to perch on my shoulder. “Athletic and practical, or cute and impractical?”

He chitters, which I choose to interpret as “Why are you asking a ferret for fashion advice?”

“You’re right. Athletic it is. We’re literally jumping out of a plane.”

I settle on black leggings that make my ass look fantastic and a long-sleeve thermal top that’s warm but not bulky. Layers can come off later. Hopefully.

Between the everything shower and the anticipation of Cole peeling off my clothes later, I have high hopes for how today will end.

I give Chewy his afternoon treats and make sure he has enough food and water, then grab my jacket and head out. Cole is picking me up, which has me even more excited.

His truck pulls up right on time, and my stomach does a giddy flip when I see him through the windshield. The way his black T-shirt stretches across his chest should be illegal, and his smile when he spots me is warm enough to melt the October chill.

“Ready to fall from the sky?” he asks as I climb in.

“Born ready.” I’m not, actually. I’m terrified. But I’m also exhilarated, and those two feelings are currently battling for dominance like gladiators in my chest. “How high are we going?”

“Fourteen thousand feet.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” My voice comes out slightly strangled. “That’s…high.”

Cole laughs, reaching over to squeeze my knee. “You’re going to love it. I promise.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll buy you dinner and let you yell at me about how absolutely terrible it was.”

“Deal.”

The drive to the private airstrip takes about forty minutes, winding through roads that climb into the foothills. The mountains are showing off today—aspens blazing gold and orange against the dark green of the pines, the late afternoon sun turning everything honey-warm. Colorado in fall is stupidly beautiful. It’s like living inside a desktop wallpaper.

“Jack’s been flying since he was sixteen,” Cole tells me as we pull onto a gravel road marked with a hand-painted sign that says Morrison Aviation. “Did two tours as an Army pilot, flew mostly Blackhawks in Afghanistan. Now he runs adventure tours and charters on the side of his cybersecurity company.”

“So he’s qualified.”

“Overqualified. The man could probably land a plane blindfolded in a hurricane.”

“Let’s not test that theory today.”

We park next to a small hangar where Jack is doing a pre-flight check on a small passenger plane. I take him in more closely than I did a few days ago at the coffee shop. Jack is a tall, broad Black man, with black hair and deep-brown skin. When he sees Cole, his face splits into a wide grin.

“There he is.” Jack pulls Cole into one of those back-slapping bro hugs men do. “And this is the girl who’s got you acting like a lovesick teenager.”

“Jack,” Cole warns, turning away. Is he…blushing?

“What? I’m just saying. You’ve mentioned her approximately eight thousand times.”

I feel my own cheeks flush, but I’m also secretly delighted. “Eight thousand seems like an exaggeration.”

“It’s an estimate.” Jack extends his hand to me, and says, “Jack Morrison. Nice to more properly meet the woman behind the obsession.”

“Hailey Brigham. Nice to meet the man who’s going to throw me out of his plane.”

Jack laughs, a deep rumble that matches his broad chest. “I like her. She’s got good energy.”

“She’s terrified,” I admit.