Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, Lottscholargmail and Hayden Avery. It helps getting feedback from readers to see what people like for when I'm writing the next chapter.
A couple days later, the doorbell rang. She opened the door to see an overnight delivery package.
"Ms. Emma Hoplin?" the deliveryman asked.
"Yes."
"Sign here, please." He handed over a clipboard for the certified mail.
Skimming the return address, she recognized Mr. Port's handwriting. She signed for the package, utterly intrigued. "Thank you." Then she shut the door and opened the box. Although greasy and dirty, inside lay her purse and most of the contents. On top, written on thick, high-stock paper, rested a handwritten note.
When the tow truck was hooking up, this fell out of what we think used to be the hood of your car. We couldn't find anything else from your purse in the snow, but the mountain decided to wear your clothes. The articles we could reach were damaged, and the suitcase wasn't in one piece. I threw those out but held a respectful eulogy.
She laughed at his sense of humor.
Probably best to get new bank cards, but odds are no one climbed into the engine compartment to steal them and then had the manners (or scheming, depending how you look at it) to return them. Your cell battery is either dead, or the phone has passed on to the next life too; hopefully the former.
Hope this helps.
JP
A quick charge and the phone started up. It beeped with a text message alert. She tapped the screen to see the message had been sent yesterday morning.
It works! :) JP
A laugh burst out of her. He was not one she'd pictured for using emoticons. She texted back.
Yes, it does. Thanks :)
She half hoped for a live response, but wasn't surprised when it didn't come.
On New Year's Eve, she sighed. She sat in the loveseat with her leg propped up and watched the ball drop at midnight while her dad snored in the recliner and her mom slept on the sofa.
Thirty had seemed so old fifteen years ago. Here she sat in her last month her twenties, laid up like an old woman with no one to celebrate New Year's and no kids of her own even running around blowing New Year's whistles. Everyone on TV kissed their special someone as Aud Lang Syne played in the background. What would it be like to kiss Mr. Port? No, that wasn't an appropriate road to wander down, even in fantasyland. Nix. Even worse having a fantasyland with him in it.
Her cell chirped. She couldn't help but smile to see the phone number.
Happy New Year. Hope you're doing something fun. JP
She texted, Happy New Year. Ankle hurting today, so laid up in living room, and parents fell asleep on me. Hope yours is good.
She clicked off her phone and debated working up the energy to hobble to bed. Her phone chirped again.
Hotel room in NY near Times Square. Too noisy to sleep; didn't think about holiday when booked it. And kinda pathetic too old to get up energy to go out.
She frowned. Or maybe too much of a spectacle to go out. Did he wear the mask around others? He must, because Trudy had seemed shocked to see him out in daylight. The car windows had been tinted too like he didn't want anyone to see inside.
If you could go out, where would you go? She waited but a moment for a reply.
You're a quick one; I see you used 'could.' Depending on the company, I'd be content to lounge in the hotel room, warm under the blankets, but I'd get a room facing the fireworks. You? Anywhere in the world.
Tapping a finger on her chin, she mulled that question over. I've never been comfortable being out in crowds. Kinda a homebody. I don't mind getting cozy at home and watching everyone else freeze on TV while I have a frontrow seat.
He returned a text. Good point. :) You seem quiet like that. I should let you get to sleep. Feel better. See another doctor if it's still hurting tomorrow. This is far out from accident to be bothering you worse.
In a walking boot now, so I think it's the forced angle that makes it hurt. Goodnight.
Get a second opinion. Goodnight.
She wanted to call and hear him, but it'd be inappropriate and far too personal. Even this texting conversation probably wasn't within professional etiquette guidelines. But she fell asleep easily that night.
The chopper blades were whirling when they pulled up ten minutes early on Monday. Her fears of him not being able to fly in the sudden artic blast blowing through faded. She got out of the passenger seat, back on crutches but ordered to bear slight weight on the ankle. Her mom came around with a suitcase.
Surprisingly, Mr. Port hopped out of the chopper, wearing the helmet and ski mask. The helmet didn't cover from his lips down. Given the temperature, though, the ski mask didn't seem out of the ordinary. As they approached, she noticed he'd positioned the headset mouthpiece to cover the right side of the mask that was sewn shut. He wore full snowgear and stepped forward to take the suitcase from her mom. Extending a gloved hand, he shook her mom's gloved one.
"Jason Paxton. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hoplin," he said over the whirl of the blades.
"Becky. My husband had to go to work, but he's looking forward to meeting you," she shouted.
"My apologies. With the temperature, I had to leave the engine running. We'll have to stop in an hour and de-ice, but it's safe. If I have any questions, we're going to land and wait out the weather."
Her mother nodded and gave her a hug. "Call when you get there."
She nodded and turned to head to the chopper.
He must have put her suitcase in the chopper because he was walking back empty handed. He signaled for her to hold the crutches in one hand. She did, and he scooped her up. Then he set her in the passenger side and handed her the headset. He shut the door and walked around. When he got inside, he said over the mic, "Did you bring snowpants?"
She nodded.
"It's so cold the heater can't keep up. You'll need everything on." He pulled her suitcase to the front and got out her snowpants and scarf.
She put them on quick, and he helped her loosen the seatbelt with the added bulk. She waved to her mom. Then they were off.
The ride was a little bumpier than the way there a couple weeks ago. His attention seemed focused entirely on flying through the random gusts of wind. It was hard to think about much besides the slight jerking of the chopper.
Fourty-five minutes into the flight he radioed, "This is Charlotte Five. We're losing fuel suddenly. We're just outside of Ottumwa, Iowa. Proceeding with emergency landing."
She blinked. Had he just said emergency landing? He sounded so calm. Surely she didn't hear that right.
"Charlotte Five, advise fuel reading. There is an airport-"
An alarm went off in the cockpit. Her heart shot into her throat.
"Negative. We're in autorotation now." Mr. Port's grip on the joystick tightened. "Emergency landing on a highway. I believe it's Highway 63. No visible traffic."
"What's autorotation?" she asked.
"Our engine died."
"What?!"
"It's fine. It's not like a plane losing an engine." He shrugged.
Either he shrugged to not cause panic or because it really didn't matter that much. No engine mid-flight sounded like a hell of a good reason to panic.
"Negative, Charlotte Five. Land in a field. Repeat, request to land on highway is denied."
"Negative. No clear visibility of power lines or snow drift depths. Approaching autorotation at fifteen hundred feet," he replied.
"Do not land on the highway, Charlotte Five. Repeat, do not land on highway. Land in a field."
Arguing in the middle of emergency landing didn't help her nerves. Someone seriously didn't know what they were doing, and she prayed it wasn't Mr. Port.
He shook his head and ignored the radio. "We're landing on an active highway, so get ready to bail before a car plows into us." Then he nodded to the right. "That's why I didn't want to blindly aim for a field."
Gripping the seat for dear life, she glaced to the right. A massive steel, high-voltage power line materialized out of the snow in the middle of the field they probably would have landed in. Then her eyes darted back to their descent, with a little more confidence in his flying skills.
The ground quickly approached, and she braced for massive impact. It seemed to take forever waiting to crash. They angled tail down, her heart racing. Then he smoothly leveled them out and landed like a feather on a pillow.
The instant they were down, he whipped off her belts and then his own. Without any time to react, he lifted her across the seat. He trudged through knee-deep snow and set her down well away from the highway. Then he ran back up to the road and stood on the shoulder, flagging cars away. He made a final call to the tower over the headset. "This is Charlotte Five. We need a truck dispatched because you have a chopper in the middle of Highway 63. Check your coordinates-your field has high-voltage power lines. Requesting police services to help redirect traffic." He sounded like he was doing nothing more exciting than ordering coffee.
She sat in the cornfield, still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
About ten minutes later, police arrived and directed traffic. He walked over and knelt down, his helmet still on. "Are you warm enough?"
Too shaken to really respond, she absently nodded.
Pulling off a glove, he then pulled off one of hers and held her hand by the wrist. It still shook. Then he put their gloves back on. "It's not as dangerous as a plane's engine failing. I had to emergency land once with Ms. Van Hoodie, and that's when her phobia started. We'll see if it's a simple fix, and then we're going back up."
Her eyes bugged.
"The longer you wait, the bigger the fear. I won't take you up if it's not safe."
A fuel line had leaked. Two hours later, they were back in the air. She squeezed her eyes shut in fervent prayer, just like Trudy. The winds must have died down, because the chopper didn't threaten to blow around like a leaf in the wind.
"Look," he said over the headset a couple minutes after takeoff.
She opened her eyes to see him pointing to the right. A herd of deer frolicked across a field not too far below. A smile escaped her, and she turned her head to look at him.
He must've removed the helmet right after takeoff because a blue eye studied her from the ski mask. She flushed under the intense look and looked out the window.
"Your eyes look bigger without the bruising masking your features." Even over the mic and whirl of the blades, his voice sounded intimate.
Keeping her head turned to the right away from him, she replied, "I know. Not an attractive feature." She shouldn't have put on makeup-it probably accentuated her features. Memories of being teased in school for having eyes and lips too big came swimming up.
"The complete opposite."
Without intending to, her head whipped around to see him looking directly at her. Ducking her head in embarrassment, she bit her lip and resumed looking out the window. Heat radiated from low in her belly and curled out through her limbs. Her heart beat a little faster. Then the aching between her thighs started. She closed her eyes, basking in this magic he had over her.
His hand brushed her thigh, and her eyes shot open.
He wrapped her hand around the joystick between her legs and let go of his. "Keep it steady." Then he sat back. "You're flying."
Oh, her body certainly did want to fly. She glanced at him, her mind preoccupied with other things. Like wondering if his lips felt as soft as they looked, or what kind of spell hid in his long fingers.
Perfectly white teeth glinted in a smile.
A gust of wind tilted them. Her heart shuddered, and she overcorrected, making them lurch the other direction. He leaned over and his gloved hand rested over hers, sure and strong as he eased them level again. His head lingered just a few inches away. The scent of a sweet but woody cologne wafted up, the most sexy aroma she'd ever smelled. Odd that no scent had ever smelled sexy before.
The full snowgear accentuated his large shoulders. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to rip off his shirt and see if his bare muscles felt as hard as they did through his shirts.
"Just take it easy."
She jumped. Had she said it out loud? Her heart thundered, utterly mortified.
Then he sat back and smiled.
Oh. He meant the joystick. She blew out a breath of relief and looked straight ahead. "Did you get a new cologne?" She winced. Not what she'd meant to say.
"No. Your nose was so swollen you probably couldn't smell well." He leaned over again and pulled the joystick back a little toward her thighs. "We can't go too high or low. Just keep it steady."
An inaudible gasp escaped her. She couldn't look away from his hand so close to where her body hummed for his touch. He'd be heartbreakingly gentle with a woman. "Maybe you should fly," she squeaked. He took his own controls again, and she sagged against the seat in relief. No man had ever driven her crazy like this. It was going to be a long three months.