Chapter One
Bridget Shanahan watched Wyatt “Wingnut” Jensen abandon eye contact yet again and drop his attention to the front of her shirt.
One glance at her tits? Possibly her imagination. Two glances? Maybe the man had something in his eye.
Three glances, though? Especially during her riveting barstool re-enactment of some fairly epic flight maneuvers she’d executed that afternoon to avoid ice shearing off the face of Big Kat Mountain? No. Just no. They were nice enough tits, she acknowledged, but her long-sleeve white T-shirt didn’t do much to show them off. Three glances meant Wing was suffering from spring fever and hoped she’d offer a cure.
The old Bridget might have considered the current square on the calendar—April Fool’s Day—and thought, Why not? Wing was single, like her. Free as a bird, like her, and, like her, prone to view sex as a purely recreational pursuit. Empirically speaking, he possessed some eye-catching assets of his own. But despite a months-long, guilt-inflicted dry spell which probably accounted for the edgy restlessness prickling under her skin all day, new Bridget stopped to consider factors beyond opportunity and convenience.
Factor one, their friendship. They’d known each other all their lives. Twenty-five years offered ample time to recognize that, pretty as he might be, there just wasn’t any real spark. Not on either of their parts. If Wing was checking out her tits in the middle of The Tipsy Goose, they were definitely the only available tits in the vicinity. That happened from time to time in their tiny hometown of Captivity, Alaska. Tourist season alleviated the limited offerings, but they had a few more weeks before the season kicked into gear.
Factor two, he worked as a mechanic for Captivity Air & Freight, the Shanahan family business now run by her older brother Trace and—much as she hated to admit it—her. As of three short weeks ago, she’d agreed to commit more of her time to the airfield in a managerial capacity instead of a bat-out-of-hell bush pilot. Trace needed her to grow up and step up, and she’d promised to start pulling her weight. She might not have a business degree, but she suspected “don’t fish off the company pier” now applied to her. Probably always had. Oops. Shame on old Bridget. New Bridget intended to behave like a responsible adult. Behave professionally. Be the kind of woman people could rely on.
Factor three? Any second now Trace was going to whip out a ring and ask former high-powered Los Angeles attorney Isabelle Marcano to marry him.
An outsider might find The Goose, with its scarred plank floors, eclectic wall art of geese in all their long-necked, pin-headed glory, and general ambiance of a tarnished, old-western saloon an inauspicious location for a proposal. To her it made perfect sense that he planned to pop the question right there, surrounded by most of the local busybodies who had done their best to sell Izzy on the charms of Trace and Captivity.
A tough sell on both counts.
She wanted to be there for the big moment and for the celebration that would surely follow. Not just because she loved her brother, but because she couldn’t have picked a better match for him than the smart, sexy city girl who’d come to Captivity to help Trace transfer his interest in the airfield to an outside purchaser, realized he was divesting for all the wrong reasons, and risked her spot on the partnership track to make sure the client she’d fallen in love with didn’t sell himself short.
“Hey, Bridge?” Wing finished his beer and aimed a smile at her. “Wanna get out of here and go for a drive? I put new shocks on the Tacoma. We could test ’em out.”
And there it was. Translation: want to park behind the airfield and leave your boot prints on my headliner?
“Sorry. No can do.” She looked down the bar. At a solid six-five, her brother proved easy to spot. Izzy, at five-four, not as much, but she made her way across the room toward Trace, relying on truly enviable red-soled heels to bolster her presence. This thing was about to go down.
Hopping off her stool, she gave Wing a grin and a shoulder bump. “You’ll just break my heart as soon as the first cute coed walks into the terminal and asks you where the summer trail guides are supposed to meet for orientation.”
Such a lie. Her heart had been broken long ago, so thoroughly she’d opted not to piece it together and hand it out again. Better to live with the old scars. They rarely troubled her nowadays. She knew how to avoid causing herself pain.
“Aw, Bridge, your heart’s safe with me,” Wing called after her.
Still grinning, shaking her head, she moseyed away, putting a little extra sway in her hips just to show him she appreciated the friendly offer.
Ford Langley, ex-Special Forces operative, current owner of The Tipsy Goose and aspiring brewmaster, manned the bar, as usual, serving up beers while chatting with Rose Iquat, the proprietress of the adjacent Captivity Inn, her daughter, Delilah, who Bridget counted as one of her best friends, and old Jorg Hendrickson, who ran a fishing boat—and his mouth—with equal abandon. Other locals occupied tables. Older couples, like Annie and Ben Watkins from Watkins’s General Store. Hoop and Carl, who practiced the law and bent the law, respectively, in their roles as attorney and nature activist. Lenna and Tom Klukwan shared a table with them. Lenna served as Jill of all trades at the airfield, from ticket agent, to gate agent, to ground transportation coordinator. They’d be lost without her.
The only local missing from this scene? Fellow bush pilot Maddox “Mad Dog” Douglas. Excellent fly-boy. Occasional boy-toy for the old Bridget. Voluntary holder of the short straw tonight when it had come time to decide who would stay behind at the airfield to play welcome wagon for some hotshot from Cali in his custom private plane. The guy wanted to hanger his million-dollar baby at their facility for the next little while, which, to them, meant money for nothing. Mad didn’t mind staying late. He practically came in his pants at the prospect of playing with the plane.
Bridget slid in next to Lilah while she kept her eyes on Trace and Izzy. Conversation in The Goose subsided when Trace pulled a ring from his pocket and made his case to the love of his life, complete with some unsolicited audience participation, but that had to be expected considering the whole town’s fondness for interfering.
Izzy’s “Yes!” and wobbly laugh bounced around the room, her eyes turned suspiciously bright, but the hand she extended to Trace held steady. He took it and slipped the ring onto her finger. While everyone clapped and cheered, Bridget’s eyes suddenly felt a little watery, too. Her big brother was getting married.
The newly engaged couple kissed. Bridget’s jaded heart did a silly, fluttery thing, and then the room erupted in more cheers and applause. A cork popped, and seconds later Ford filled flutes of champagne he’d lined up on the bar. Toasts were made, hugs and back slaps exchanged.
Asserting sisterly privileges, she wedged herself between them, gave Trace a big hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations.” Turning, she gave Izzy a slightly gentler version of the same. “I’ll sign up for bridesmaid duty, but just so we’re clear, I draw the line at seafoam green taffeta.”