Such a Rush by Jennifer Echols Page B

open and stepping inside the building a huge commotion, as he always did, though he said nothing and carried nothing in his hands. The door automatically hissed shut behind him. The only noises left were the warm Atlantic breeze whispering in the long grass that lined the single airstrip, and the rope clanging against the flagpole.
    I had wanted something from him. Even expected a confrontation. To be ignored was a sentence without a period. Like Mr. Hall’s death out of the blue.
    Grayson burst out the door again, startling me. The newspaper ripped in my hands. I hoped he hadn’t heard.
    But if he had, who cared? He would stomp back across the tarmac to the hangar without looking back, whether I watched him or not.
    He surprised me again by sitting in the rocking chair beside mine and handing me a bottle of water from the machine in the break room. I was afraid he’d seen my worn bottle on the counter and was hinting I needed a new one—but through my paranoia about looking poor, at least I could still tell when I was being paranoid. He was paying me back for the bottle I’d given him the day he crashed. Or he was just being nice.
    He settled back in his chair and folded his long legs to prop one ankle on the opposite knee, flip-flop hanging from his toes. With his elbows up and his hands behind his head, he looked like the Admiral and the other pilots who sat out here in the afternoons and watched planes take off and land and told dirty stories, stopping in midsentence when I walked by. I wondered whether he was imitating them consciously.
    Over the loudspeaker, the Admiral announced his final approach.
    Out of habit, Grayson and I gazed past the two-seater and four-seater planes parked on the tarmac, across the grass rippling white in the spring breeze, toward the end of the runway. The Admiral’s plane was visible now, sinking fast over the trailer park.
    Grayson said, “So, Leah.”
    Carefully I folded the newspaper. There was no way Grayson could know I felt self-conscious about it. I wasoverreacting. I tucked the pages under my thigh anyway, and I said, “So, Grayson.”
    “I know my dad promised he would hire you to fly for him starting this week,” Grayson said. “Nothing’s changed since he died.”
    I let my head fall back against my chair and watched him, looking as bored as I could behind my own mirrored aviator shades, while I puzzled through what he was saying. Everything had changed since Mr. Hall had died.
    Then it dawned on me what Grayson meant. Shifting forward with my elbows on my knees, I asked, “You’re going to try to run the business? You want me to fly for you ?”
    “I’m not going to try,” Grayson drawled. “I am going to run the business. And yes. You had a business agreement with Hall Aviation. I expect you to honor it.”
    The crack about honor got under my skin. I had no honor? I couldn’t be trusted?
    But he didn’t seem spiteful. He met my gaze—I assumed, though I didn’t know for sure, since there were two pairs of aviator sunglasses between us. Slowly rocking in his chair, he watched me watching him. Without seeing his eyes, I couldn’t read a thing in his face. There was nothing to learn from his hard jaw dusted with a few days’ blond stubble, his straight nose, or the straw cowboy hat I’d seldom seen him without. I got the impression he was doing exactly what I was doing, remaining calm like a professional pilot, waiting for me to make a comment so he could size me up and redirect his argument.
    For some reason, he really wanted me to fly for him.
    I glanced toward the end of the runway, where the Admiral was landing just in time to save me from this uncomfortable conversation. As the white Beechcraft touched down and sped across the asphalt, waves of heat made the plane seem to ripple.I dismissed Grayson with, “I’ve already got a job. Not for this week, but starting in the summer.”
    “No,” Grayson said. “You’re supposed to be working for me this