Chapter Nine

“Did you get my surprise, Izzy?”

She jammed her cell phone to her ear and put the finishing touches on another line of data entry. “Danny, the whole freaking airfield got your surprise.”

“Damn, girl. You work quick.”

“No. Not ‘got it’ in that way. I mean, everyone saw it.” She hit save and sat back in Trace’s huge desk chair. It squeaked in protest and rocked precipitously, stealing her breath and leaving her momentarily flailing at the prospect of it giving way and dumping her to the floor. When it reached the approximate angle of recline for a shampoo chair something in the workings caught and held. She cautiously released her death grip on the armrests and eased the chair upright until her toes touched the floor.

Jesus.

She missed her calmly colorful, light-drenched office at Hecker, Hiltz & Reynolds, with her ergonomic desk setup and her view of Century City’s high rises.

“They searched your luggage upon arrival?” Danny’s confused voice pulled her back to the present.

“No.” Briefly, she summarized the fiasco of her trunk malfunction, and Danny’s “surprise” landing at Trace’s feet while Mad Dog and Wing looked on.

Her friend and coworker displayed zero remorse. “So, what I’m hearing is that within seconds of landing in Captivity, you were surrounded by a buffet of bear daddies. You are welcome. Which one are you going to share my surprise with? Or which one first?” he quickly revised. “I don’t mean to limit you in any way.”

“Well, none, as it turns out.” In a highly edited retelling, she explained how the whole town currently believed she was in Captivity as Trace’s girlfriend.

“Wait. Wait. Wait. Are you telling me that within seconds of arriving in Captivity, you attained actual, lip-to-lip contact with a single, eligible, heterosexual male of the human species?”

Two lip-locks, strictly speaking, but that was beside the point. “It wasn’t a legitimate kiss, you fool. It was an act. An impulsive act that effectively aces me out of any bear daddy action for the entirety of my time here.”

“Not true. Shanahan is available. Is he hot? A good kisser?”

“Irrelevant. He’s my client.”

“Izzy, my stickler, what if you two just happened to…I don’t know…huddle for warmth? What happens in Captivity stays in Captivity.”

“Chuck would hand me my ass if he got wind of any huddling.”

“Hold on.” She heard him tapping keys, and pictured him at his desk, in a tailored shirt, looking like a young Matthew McConaughey. “I just pulled up the Captivity Air website. Which one is…? Oh. My. God.”

Though familiar enough with the website to know what picture Danny had found, Izzy loaded it on her screen. It was an informal shot, taken during a sunny summer month, beside the colorful wood-carved Captivity Air and Freight sign mounted on the front of the building. The picture captured Trace in all his blue-eyed, black-haired, broad-shouldered glory. The fact that he was clean-shaven in the photo only proved that there was a strong jaw and square chin beneath the beard.

“Holy Henry Cavill,” Danny breathed.

“He has a beard now,” Izzy supplied.

“Shut up. What kind of a beard?”

“More than stubble, less than Santa. A bear daddy beard.”

An “Aaaaaah,” sound like a movie moment when Indiana Jones finds the treasure filled her ear, followed by, “Isabelle Marcano, if you don’t climb that mountain while you’re there—climb it, conquer it, plant your flag at the summit—I swear on the ABA Code of Ethics you will get disbarred for being legally insane.”

She smiled, despite herself. “Between the two of us, I pit my sanity against yours any day.”

“Is he there? Can I speak to him?”

“No, and hell no.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s busy. He collected a bunch of files for me to start due diligence, he took a call, he plowed snow off the runway and checked for ice, he did some mechanical stuff to a plane, and then he snowshoed back up to town to get his truck. I snowshoed too, this morning, from the inn to the airfield, in case you’re interested in what I’ve been up to.”

“I’m more interested in what you ought to be getting up to.”

“Goodbye, Danny.”

“Climb!”

The line went dead. Still smiling, she looked back at the screen of her laptop. Though it was the kind of dry, time-consuming chore only a first-year associate would find interesting, she’d started with the inventory of assets. Chuck wanted Captivity Air to receive top-level expertise from start to finish, and she aimed to give Chuck what he wanted. Also, she could put together the inventory based on her powers of observation, plus a look through the small mountain of files Trace had built up for her on the desk, containing purchase contracts, title documents, or receipts for their planes and other major equipment. Once she created the inventory, she could present it to Trace to review and bless. And then—

“Hey, Captivity, it’s me. I’m 5 miles southwest, 1,000 feet, inbound for landing. Which runway did you plow? Over.”

Izzy swiveled in the chair and stared at the laptop perched on the hunk of equipment on the credenza. The female voice faded, waited, then repeated the information and question, followed by, “Trace? Mad? Anyone? Over.”

The voice seemed to be coming from the computer’s built-in speakers. Izzy touched the mousepad and the screen lit with a view of the runways—maybe from a camera mounted in the crow’s nest. “Um…hello?”

Silence followed. Shoot. Did she have to push something, or speak into something, or—

“Hi. Am I talking to Captivity Air? Over.”

“Yes. Sorry. That’s where I am, but nobody’s here right now.” She glanced at the time display along the top of the laptop screen. “I think Trace will be back soon.” She squinted at the picture on the screen. “It looks to me like both runways are clear, but if you need definitive information right away, I can walk over to the waiting area and look out the window.” She sat back to wait for a response, then realized she’d forgotten to conclude her transmission. She leaned toward the computer and said, “Over.”

“Is this Isabelle? Over.”

“Yep. Yes. That’s me. Over.”

“Oh. This is Bridget, Trace’s sister. I can’t wait to meet you. I’ve heard so much about… Well, actually, I’ve heard next to nothing about you, but I love surprises. Don’t worry about the runway. I have plenty of fuel. I’ll do a flyby and figure it out. Over.”

“Okay.” Flyby? Did that require her to provide some sort of clearance regarding the airspace? “Um…I don’t have any information on air traffic or anything. Over.”

Bridget laughed. “Landing in Captivity the day after a blizzard at the cusp of the off-season is sort of like parking at a football stadium the day after the Super Bowl. It’s wide open. But don’t worry, UNICOM will tell me anything I need to watch out for. Over.”

Her pulse slowed to a more normal pace. “Great. Good.” She took a deep breath. “Over.”

Her nervousness must have transmitted loud and clear because Bridget’s chuckle danced over the speakers. “See you soon, Isabelle. Over and out.”

“Over and out,” she repeated, unsure if that was proper protocol or not. But since she’d have company shortly, she powered down her laptop and slid it, plus a handful of files, into her messenger bag. Then she stood, and nearly gasped. Every muscle in her legs rebelled against being called to action. The short journey around the desk to hang her bag along the back of a guest chair confirmed the soreness and stiffness weren’t just going to be walked off. Gritting her teeth, she stacked the rest of the files on the top of one of the cabinets, grabbed her parka, and headed out to the main room to refill her HH&R water bottle and check the skies for a plane. By the time she made it to the big windows along the rear of the terminal, a little red plane much like the one she’d flown in on followed the curve of the cove, coasted past the airfield, and dipped a wing in what, to Izzy’s eye, looked like a wave. The craft turned, circled, and lined up for a landing on the runway most straight-on to the terminal. Surprisingly, a few minutes later it taxied to a stop practically at the door. Some brisk shutdown procedure followed, and then the cockpit door opened, and an unfairly tall, leggy woman jumped down to the tarmac with casual, loose-limbed grace.

The distance, and a pair of polarized sunglasses, prevented Izzy from scrutinizing features she’d only seen on the website and from identifying family resemblances, but even from many feet away she could tell Trace’s sister could have stepped off a page of one of those sporty, outdoorsy catalogues. If Patagonia, Athletica, and Nike Crossfit had gotten together to design the perfect model for a snug gray turtleneck topped by a shearling-lined black vest and paired with loose-fitting gray camouflage cargo pants—the whole ensemble firmly anchored by thick-soled black boots—it would have been Bridget Shanahan. Especially the pants. She knew from personal experience a woman had to be tall and lean to pull off all those pockets and still look like a runway model instead of a pack mule.

Trace’s sister opened the cargo hold, reached in, and hefted a box into her arms.

Well, shoot. How many of those were there to unload? And how much of a princess would she look like if she didn’t get out there and help? She put her water bottle on the gate desk, slipped her gloves on, and walked into the cold air. “Hi. Can I help?”

The dark-haired woman turned, and her face broke into a smile as wide and open as the sky she’d just dropped out of. “Nah. You’re our guest.” Her smile broadened a notch. “Besides, Lilah tells me you tried snowshoeing for the first time today. Your legs are probably begging for mercy right now, just standing there. I’ve got this.” She strode past Izzy, bent at the knees, and placed the package on the floor below the windows, in front of the empty waiting area. Then she stood, lifted her sunglasses to top of her spikey-cut bangs, dusted her glove off on her pant leg, and held her hand out. “Bridget.”

“Isabelle Marcano.” She shook the offered hand. “My friends call me Izzy.”

“Hey, Izzy. Welcome to Captivity.”

“Thanks. Welcome back. Trace told me you got waylaid in Anchorage because of last night’s storm.”

“Anchorage is always fun, no matter what the reason.” Her smiled dimmed a little. “Speaking of fun, bet your flight yesterday evening was a blast.”

She grimaced. “A level of fun I don’t want to repeat anytime soon.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, Mad Dog told me you rolled in wearing four-inch heels, sparkling like a diamond. He and Wing were ready to compete for your affection with feats of strength and stupidity until Trace broke their hearts by staking his claim.”

“Hmm. That’s not quite how I remember it, but it was nice of them not to mention my luggage barfed all over the terminal floor.”

“Oh, they mentioned that, too.” She winked one twinkling, violet-blue eye. “You’d think they’d never seen women’s underwear before, whereas I can personally vouch Mad has, and I have reliable intel Wing possesses a rudimentary familiarity.”

“Oh, well. That’s a relief, I guess.”

“I don’t know whether either of them had even seen a vibrator, though.”

Izzy felt her face heat. “Jeez, they don’t leave any detail out, do they?”

Bridget just laughed. “Things get pretty slow during the off-season. New blood, especially new blood with potential sticking power, is big news. I better get the rest of the cargo unloaded and get the plane squared away. I’ll let you go back to…whatever you were doing.”

“Organizing Trace’s files.”

Bridget stared at her for a stunned moment, then mimed putting a gun to her head and pulling the trigger. “Better you than me. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to bring order to that chaos, or anywhere near the patience to try. It must be love if you’re willing to sacrifice vacation days to tackle Trace’s filing system.”

Izzy clasped her hands together and shrugged. “I’m an organized soul. I just can’t help myself.”

“I’ll come find you once I’m done and see if I can corrupt you with some legitimate fun.” She turned to walk out to the plane. “If Trace gets back before I’m done, do me a favor and send him out to help.”

“I will,” she called. Heading back to the office with her freshly filled water bottle, she acknowledged a new, more profound source of unease than her strained leg muscles. Trace’s sister seemed nice. Deceiving her about their relationship won the day’s discomfort sweepstakes.

…

Trace walked into the terminal to the sound of women laughing. He followed the noise to the waiting area, where Bridget and Izzy sat in relaxed conversation. Well, Izzy sat. Bridget lounged, with an arm slung across the back of a chair and her boots resting on the armrest of the next chair over. “No, no, no,” she said. “I stand corrected. Dislocating his shoulder while trying to get to third base with Becky Higgins in the cab of her little Toyota 4Runner was not his first dating disaster. That honor would belong to Megan Manion. Mrs. Manion and my mom were good friends, and Trace and Megan were born just a couple months apart, so they played together all the time. I guess when they were around five, they—”

“Three,” he corrected, and found himself the recipient to two female gazes. One gently amused, the other gleaming with the delight of a younger sibling determined to tell embarrassing tales about an older, wiser, more responsible sibling. “We were three, you weren’t even born yet, and Izzy doesn’t want to hear your boring, secondhand stories.”

“Oh, no.” Izzy turned back to Bridget, smiling brightly, and tapped her hand. “I do. I want to hear all of them.”

Trace rolled his eyes while Bridget continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “They were playing outside and got dirty, so the moms decided to put them in the bath together to clean up. Once they were splashing around, Mrs. Manion realized Megan had never seen a naked guy before and wondered what she would make of…you know…Trace’s assets.”

“Did he make an impression?” Izzy asked.

“I’ll say. According to Mrs. Manion, on the way home Megan turned to her and asked, ‘Do you think they can have it removed?’” With that, Bridget clapped her hands and laughed ’til tears leaked down her cheeks, and practically hurt herself adding, “So much for penis envy.”

Izzy laughed as well, but politely behind her hand. Her eyes sought his. More pleased than he anticipated at how well Izzy and his sister were getting along, but game to exact a little revenge, he walked over to her, tugged her ponytail to tip her head back, and planted a long, thorough kiss smack on her mouth. By the time he eased back her eyes were glazed, her cheeks pink, and her cotton candy lips parted invitingly. While she blinked him into focus, he added, “You get any penis envy, Izzy, just say the word. You can have mine whenever you want.” Subtext? I can scratch your itch. Think about it. By the look on her face, she was giving it thought. A lot of thought.

“Ugh.” Bridget nudged him in the arm with the toe of her boot, and then swung her legs down until her feet hit the floor. “Don’t kill my appetite. I’m looking forward to the inn’s shepherd’s pie for lunch.”

“I’ll put it on my tab,” he said, always relieved to know she was getting a decent meal, “if you help load the packages into the Yukon.” To Izzy, he asked, “Do you have anything to go back with us?”

“Just my stuff. I have a few things to work on this afternoon, but I can do that at the inn.”

“Okay. Go ahead and grab your things while Bridge and I load up.”

“Sure.” She rose a bit cautiously, which told him she was feeling some aftereffects from the morning’s snowshoe workout. “Be right back.”

He watched her limp off, and mentally reminded himself to get a bottle of Rose’s cure-all lotion—the anti-inflammatory properties of the CBD oil she infused went a long way toward muscle recovery.

“Hey.”

He turned to Bridge, who was already lifting a box. “What?” He took the largest of the bunch and led the way out the door.

“Why’s she staying at the inn?”

He frowned. “Because she doesn’t own a house here. She’s visiting, remember?” At the car, he balanced his box against the wheel well and popped the hatch.

“You know what I mean,” his sister insisted as she shoved her box into the trunk. “Why didn’t you invite her to stay at the house?”

“It’s your house, too. I wouldn’t just spring a guest on you. And I appreciate that you afford me the same courtesy,” he quickly added. He had no interest in being a sideline witness to the sucker parade of her love life.

His sister waved the excuse away. “She’s not a ‘guest.’ She’s a woman you’re serious about. Besides, it’s a big enough house, and it’s not like I’d be listening at your bedroom door.”

It wasn’t in the cards, but he appreciated her offer. Turning to face her, he hitched his lips into a grin. “Maybe she’s a screamer.”

Bridget rolled her eyes. “More likely, you’re a dreamer.” She patted his cheek. “All men are. But if gets you two more comfortable, I can make myself scarce. You know me. I’ve got options.”

Yeah. As much as he tried to keep his head buried when it came to that sort of thing, she seemed to enjoy having options—a lot of options. People dealt with grief in different ways. Hopefully, her way was working for her, but all of the sudden, the idea of her being scarce made him sad. Maybe they’d both been too scarce for a while now. To combat that thought, and end the conversation, he caught her in a headlock, and ran his knuckles over her skull.

“Hey!” She threw an elbow into his gut, but he was ready for it.

“I don’t want you scarce, Bridge.” He noogied her one more time and endured a boot to the shin for his indulgence. “Everything is fine, as is.” Releasing her, he stepped back and ruffled her messy hair. “But thanks for offering.”

She shook her head to shoo his hand away and started walking back to the terminal. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Back atcha.” He fell into step beside her.

“But seriously”—she shot him a look—“let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t, but thanks.”