showed up right after breakfast. A breakfast where heâd carefully sat with his back to the angel. The truck was the smallest field version SkyHi made, assembled on the frame of a small apartment-sized moving truck, a twelve-foot-long box, and a low, ten-foot trailer on the hitch. The trailer consisted of a hitch, two wheels, and a small catapult launch for the drones. The whole thing didnât look all that different from a snowmobile on a trailer with just a few more jacks and features.
The truck itself was the most basic rig, but with dualies on the back. All of the gear inside the truckâs cargo bay couldnât weigh more than a couple hundred pounds, so the dual tires on the drive axle would allow him better traction if he ever had to haul up a logging road. That was nice.
It was painted jet black. The manufacturerâs bright yellow SkyHi logo and, below it, the red-and-orange flame-licked MHA logo of Mount Hood Aviation made it look sharp and dangerous. He liked that. On top of a good nightâs sleep that had eased his muscles, the sight of that truck did a good job of clearing out last nightâs attitude.
Steve had the delivery guy bring the rig past the parking lot, slip it between the buildings, and park it just beyond the parachute loft. On the blank side of the farthest building of the camp. Good for clearance is what heâd tell everyone, and it was.
Also, it maximized his privacy once people got used to him. He was in a mood to have a minimum of witnesses watching him limp around all summer.
âNeed a hand setting up?â The driver tossed Steve the keys as he climbed out of the cab.
âNo thanks. Iâve got it.â Steve had to prove he was still good for some damn thing. As soon as he said it, he knew heâd be sorry. His knee was better, but it still throbbed from yesterdayâs overuse and wouldnât be getting any better from all the labor needed to set up his gear. The work wasnât stressful, but it would keep him on his feet for much of the day.
He considered calling the driver back. Then the angel wandered over, and he couldnât take back his words in front of Carly.
The guy waved and climbed into a yellow-logoed black SUV that had followed him into camp. He could have had two helpers. Crap. In moments they were gone and he was left holding the keys. Literally.
âPilot.â
Steve turned to see Carly standing close beside him, looking at the logo on the truck. Her arms crossed over her chest. Not aggressively clasped, just comfortable being a little closed off from those around her. Looking as good as she did, it was easy to understand why that might be her default at-bat stance.
Her profile figure was perfectly outlined in a black T-shirt, which he now knew said âMHA Gooniesâ across the back in large red letters. And she still wore his baseball cap. Her long ponytail of hair, so light it was almost the color of the sun, pulled through the back loop. No way was he going to ask for his hat back.
âYou said you were a pilot, but you didnât say what kind.â
âActually ICA Henderson said I was.â And what idiot part of him had decided that the way to charm a woman was to correct her on trivia that didnât matter? The idiot part of him that gave up last night because there just wasnât a chance. Turn it around, Mercer. At least be civil.
âBut, yes, Iâm a pilot. A drone pilot.â Didnât sound the least bit sexy, no matter how he said it. Helicopter pilot would have been cool, wildfire helitack pilot even better, but even if his injury compensation had covered the stiff costs of chopper pilot training, which it hadnât, the docs had insisted his new knee couldnât take the constant strain that the pedals would require anyway.
Heâd doubted them until last night. After lying against a building until long after sunset because he couldnât even face the pain of standing up
The truck itself was the most basic rig, but with dualies on the back. All of the gear inside the truckâs cargo bay couldnât weigh more than a couple hundred pounds, so the dual tires on the drive axle would allow him better traction if he ever had to haul up a logging road. That was nice.
It was painted jet black. The manufacturerâs bright yellow SkyHi logo and, below it, the red-and-orange flame-licked MHA logo of Mount Hood Aviation made it look sharp and dangerous. He liked that. On top of a good nightâs sleep that had eased his muscles, the sight of that truck did a good job of clearing out last nightâs attitude.
Steve had the delivery guy bring the rig past the parking lot, slip it between the buildings, and park it just beyond the parachute loft. On the blank side of the farthest building of the camp. Good for clearance is what heâd tell everyone, and it was.
Also, it maximized his privacy once people got used to him. He was in a mood to have a minimum of witnesses watching him limp around all summer.
âNeed a hand setting up?â The driver tossed Steve the keys as he climbed out of the cab.
âNo thanks. Iâve got it.â Steve had to prove he was still good for some damn thing. As soon as he said it, he knew heâd be sorry. His knee was better, but it still throbbed from yesterdayâs overuse and wouldnât be getting any better from all the labor needed to set up his gear. The work wasnât stressful, but it would keep him on his feet for much of the day.
He considered calling the driver back. Then the angel wandered over, and he couldnât take back his words in front of Carly.
The guy waved and climbed into a yellow-logoed black SUV that had followed him into camp. He could have had two helpers. Crap. In moments they were gone and he was left holding the keys. Literally.
âPilot.â
Steve turned to see Carly standing close beside him, looking at the logo on the truck. Her arms crossed over her chest. Not aggressively clasped, just comfortable being a little closed off from those around her. Looking as good as she did, it was easy to understand why that might be her default at-bat stance.
Her profile figure was perfectly outlined in a black T-shirt, which he now knew said âMHA Gooniesâ across the back in large red letters. And she still wore his baseball cap. Her long ponytail of hair, so light it was almost the color of the sun, pulled through the back loop. No way was he going to ask for his hat back.
âYou said you were a pilot, but you didnât say what kind.â
âActually ICA Henderson said I was.â And what idiot part of him had decided that the way to charm a woman was to correct her on trivia that didnât matter? The idiot part of him that gave up last night because there just wasnât a chance. Turn it around, Mercer. At least be civil.
âBut, yes, Iâm a pilot. A drone pilot.â Didnât sound the least bit sexy, no matter how he said it. Helicopter pilot would have been cool, wildfire helitack pilot even better, but even if his injury compensation had covered the stiff costs of chopper pilot training, which it hadnât, the docs had insisted his new knee couldnât take the constant strain that the pedals would require anyway.
Heâd doubted them until last night. After lying against a building until long after sunset because he couldnât even face the pain of standing up
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