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“You said that already.” He crosses his arms.

“Because it remains true.”

“You were streaming until two.” He says with a shake of his head.

I point at him. “Hey! That information is classified.”

“You told me.” He is not amused.

“Then I regret my transparency.” I sigh and fawn disappointment in him.

Rick’s in his late fifties, with the exact expression of a man who’s taught enough student pilots to recognize every stupid excuse before it leaves their mouth. He reminds me of my dad, and maybe that’s the reason I picked him to teach me. He has good instincts, also like my dad.

“I’m not taking you up tired.”

My stomach sinks. “Rick...”

“No.” And he has that look on his face that says he isn’t going to budge on this.

“But we’re working on short field landings today.”

“Not anymore.”

I look at the plane, then back at him. “This feels like an unnecessary nerf.”

“A what?” His eyebrows raise as if I’m speaking in another language. I suppose I am.

“When developers weaken something because it’s too powerful.”

“You are not too powerful.” He sighs in pure exasperation at me.

“Rude.” I say.

“You’re tired,” he argues.

“I have caffeine.”

“That is not sleep.”

“Coffee has carried civilization for hundreds of years. I refuse to be the generation that lets it down.”

A masculine voice behind me says, “And poor judgment has killed people for considerably longer.” The voice is deep and smooth and reminds me of our local radio announcer back home that I listened to for years. His voice soothed me. He could have read me the dictionary and I’d have listened.

I freeze.

Rick looks past me, something in his face rearranging into pure, unhelpful delight. “Morning, Fowler.”

I turn. And immediately forget what I was arguing about.

The man standing ten feet away is tall enough to make the hangar door behind him look smaller. I take him in. Broad shoulders. Dark blue polo tucked into charcoal pants. Short, clean cut, brown hair with just enough gray at the temples, like he’s lived through some things and isn’t afraid to talk about it. He’s breathtakingly sexy.

Damn.

Where did he come from, and why does he look like a man who alphabetizes his spices?

His gaze lands on me. Deep brown eyes, assessing, unimpressed.

Interesting.