The bar buzzes with energy, celebrating new pilots. The Angels welcomed me with open arms today after our last run, but I’m not stupid; I still have to prove myself. Tonight, though, is about blending in and getting to know the squad. The Angels are one of the most elite flight programs in the country, and the maneuvers we do at each event show just how great a pilot you are. I am ready to show that I am supposed to be here. I watched my dad be a part of this team for years when I was growing up, and I am determined to be better than he was when he was an Angel. Yeah, I’m cocky about it, but I can also back that up when the time comes.
The air smells of stale beer and fried food, the live music loud enough to drown out the clink of glasses and occasional hoop and holler from the nearby dart and pool games. Taking a pull from my beer, I laugh at the story our captain, Knox, is telling about his rookie days. Then the doors open, pulling almost all the air from the bar.
Every head at our table turns—some out of curiosity, some in that not-so-subtle way men do when someone magnetic walks into a room.
Pulling my eyes to what has everyone's attention, I see her.
Her raven hair with subtle blonde highlights catching the light falls in loose waves, like a halo, over a leather jacket that seems tailored for her. Her curves don’t ask for attention; they demand it, with the way her jeans hug every inch of her long legs. And those eyes—bright, piercing, and framed by lashes so thick they could probably stop a plane if she blinked too hard. She isn’t just beautiful; she’s the kind of gorgeous that makes you feel like you’re in a scene you don’t deserve to be a part of.
I swallow hard, trying to focus back on Knox’s story, but it’s no use. My gaze keeps darting back to her, tracking the way she moves through the room like she owns it.
“Who’s that?” I ask, leaning over to Nathan, the team’s resident know-it-all.
Nathan chuckles, not even glancing her way as he takes a swig of his beer. “That, my friend, is trouble.”
The minute I see her drift toward the dartboard, it’s like my brain hands me an assignment: Go talk to her.
I am not exactly subtle about it either. Tossing back the last of my beer and making some excuse about stretching my legs, I saunter over like I have all the confidence in the world because talking to women has never been an issue for me. But my heart is pounding as I walk up to her, like I just pulled the craziest level of G’s in the cockpit.
She is just lining up her shot, one hip cocked as she aims, completely unaware—or completely uninterested—because every guy in the bar is watching her. I stop a few feet away, close enough to seem casual but not close enough to seem like I am about to challenge her to a duel.
“You’ve got excellent form,” I say, nodding toward her stance.
She glances at me, just a flicker of those striking blue eyes, before her attention goes back to the dartboard. “I know,” she says, cool as ice.
Okay, not a lot to work with, but I am not giving up that easily. “Do you play often?”
She throws her dart, hitting just shy of the bull’s-eye. “Often enough.”
I let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Have you ever taken on a pilot before? We’re pretty competitive.”
She grabs another dart from the tray and turns to face me, finally giving me her full attention. “Is that what you are? A pilot?” Her tone shows she’s not impressed. At all.
“First year on the Angels,” I say, flashing my most charming grin, making sure my dimples show. “Ash Carr. And you are?” I reach my hand out.
“Not interested.”
Her words hit harder than I expected, but I try to recover quickly, leaning one shoulder against the wall like she didn’t just shoot me down in record time. “Not interested in what? Darts or pilots?”
She smirks—barely—but it’s not the smile I was aiming for. “Flirting.”
I blink, stunned for a second, before shaking my head with a laugh. “Fair enough. How about—if I win the next game, you just might change your mind?”
She picks up her last dart, lines up her shot, and sinks it dead center in the bull’s-eye without even looking fazed. Then she turns back to me, one eyebrow raised.
“Good luck with that, flyboy.”
I lean against the edge of the dartboard, casually spinning one dart between my fingers like I have all the time in the world.
“Tell me your name.”
“If I give you my name, can I go back to my game in peace?” She stands a few feet away, arms crossed, looking at me like she is humoring a kid who thinks he’s smooth.
“We’ll see what happens.” I smirk at her.
“Fine, it's Amelia,” she says reluctantly, with an eye roll.
“Alright, Amelia.” I flash her my best grin. “Let’s make this interesting. If I hit three bull’s-eyes in a row, you let me buy you a drink.”
