had been off for the past month on vacation.
Still, it was almost choreographed. He showed his identification, passed through the screening checkpoint, and headed for the coffee shop.
He’d deal with his friend soon enough. For now, it was back to work. Still, he had to admit that the race had been a good rush, taking away some of the boredom of the drive he knew so dang well that he could do it while asleep.
Now it was back to the real world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The taxi pulled up in front of the Sea-Tac terminal after a nauseating ride, swerving in and out of traffic and around single-minded travelers. Stormy Halifax tossed the driver his money, two hours worth of work gone in twenty minutes of wasted time on the commute, and leapt from the cab, running straight for the front entrance of the airport.
She was all set to begin her average day with its monotonous routine. She was one of the baristas at a small latte shop, Republic Coffee, located in the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. The small and quaint café was nestled in between the food court and a local gift shop.
Stormy had been at her job for only a month, but it was such a hassle to get there that she wasn’t sure she even wanted the job to last anymore. If only she didn’t need the money so desperately.
The airport was a bustling madhouse with an endless sea of people on what seemed to be a busy travel day. Republic Coffee stayed fairly busy throughout the day because it was near the top of the escalators and the main entranceway to a majority of the airline gates after security.
As Stormy stepped off the escalator, she was immediately assailed by oblivious passengers, the smell of coffee, and the sound of a gate agent getting reamed by an unhappy customer.
Yes, it would obviously be another long day of coffee drudgery, pushy passengers, and egotistical pilots. She could handle most of it, but the pilots were the absolute worst.
When she first started working here, she’d found them fascinating—a great number of them were sexy, confident, and downright charming. It didn’t hurt that they were well paid, flashing bulging wallets at the coffeehouse and flaunting expensive watches and sunglasses.
By her third week, though, she’d discovered that most of the pilots made no secret about wanting one thing only. A lot of them had a different girlfriend in each city on their routes.
She absolutely wanted no part of that. She’d rather be single than be some arrogant man’s plaything. After she’d turned down several “kind” offers, they’d finally taken the hint and stopped asking her for dates—or one-night stands, if she was being honest. Yes, she’d had one of those, but that was in the past.
Stormy had just signed into her register when a man in a clean, pressed button-up shirt, impeccably tailored even to the most stringent of military standards, walked into her field of vision.
His gleaming gold pilot’s wings adorned the left side of his broad chest, and above his right chest pocket he wore a bright name badge with the words “Captain Armstrong, Trans Pacific Airlines.”
This pilot stood about six feet four, with piercing green eyes. He wore a captain’s hat embroidered with a gold leaf and it had his airline insignia centered above the visor. Peering out from the underside of the visor and on the visible side of his temple was nearly black hair, well trimmed and styled. His skin tone was slightly dark, perhaps a hint of a Mediterranean heritage. His face was clean shaven, showcasing his incredibly sensual lips.
His physique was a sight to behold, with broad shoulders, a muscular, well-defined chest, and deltoids, biceps, and triceps filling out his dress shirt. Stormy’s eyes followed the natural progression of his impressive physique, dropping to the black belt fitted perfectly at his hips.
Why did he look familiar?
It wasn’t until he was right in front of her that the connection clicked.
Flashes of a moonlit beach—a
Still, it was almost choreographed. He showed his identification, passed through the screening checkpoint, and headed for the coffee shop.
He’d deal with his friend soon enough. For now, it was back to work. Still, he had to admit that the race had been a good rush, taking away some of the boredom of the drive he knew so dang well that he could do it while asleep.
Now it was back to the real world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The taxi pulled up in front of the Sea-Tac terminal after a nauseating ride, swerving in and out of traffic and around single-minded travelers. Stormy Halifax tossed the driver his money, two hours worth of work gone in twenty minutes of wasted time on the commute, and leapt from the cab, running straight for the front entrance of the airport.
She was all set to begin her average day with its monotonous routine. She was one of the baristas at a small latte shop, Republic Coffee, located in the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. The small and quaint café was nestled in between the food court and a local gift shop.
Stormy had been at her job for only a month, but it was such a hassle to get there that she wasn’t sure she even wanted the job to last anymore. If only she didn’t need the money so desperately.
The airport was a bustling madhouse with an endless sea of people on what seemed to be a busy travel day. Republic Coffee stayed fairly busy throughout the day because it was near the top of the escalators and the main entranceway to a majority of the airline gates after security.
As Stormy stepped off the escalator, she was immediately assailed by oblivious passengers, the smell of coffee, and the sound of a gate agent getting reamed by an unhappy customer.
Yes, it would obviously be another long day of coffee drudgery, pushy passengers, and egotistical pilots. She could handle most of it, but the pilots were the absolute worst.
When she first started working here, she’d found them fascinating—a great number of them were sexy, confident, and downright charming. It didn’t hurt that they were well paid, flashing bulging wallets at the coffeehouse and flaunting expensive watches and sunglasses.
By her third week, though, she’d discovered that most of the pilots made no secret about wanting one thing only. A lot of them had a different girlfriend in each city on their routes.
She absolutely wanted no part of that. She’d rather be single than be some arrogant man’s plaything. After she’d turned down several “kind” offers, they’d finally taken the hint and stopped asking her for dates—or one-night stands, if she was being honest. Yes, she’d had one of those, but that was in the past.
Stormy had just signed into her register when a man in a clean, pressed button-up shirt, impeccably tailored even to the most stringent of military standards, walked into her field of vision.
His gleaming gold pilot’s wings adorned the left side of his broad chest, and above his right chest pocket he wore a bright name badge with the words “Captain Armstrong, Trans Pacific Airlines.”
This pilot stood about six feet four, with piercing green eyes. He wore a captain’s hat embroidered with a gold leaf and it had his airline insignia centered above the visor. Peering out from the underside of the visor and on the visible side of his temple was nearly black hair, well trimmed and styled. His skin tone was slightly dark, perhaps a hint of a Mediterranean heritage. His face was clean shaven, showcasing his incredibly sensual lips.
His physique was a sight to behold, with broad shoulders, a muscular, well-defined chest, and deltoids, biceps, and triceps filling out his dress shirt. Stormy’s eyes followed the natural progression of his impressive physique, dropping to the black belt fitted perfectly at his hips.
Why did he look familiar?
It wasn’t until he was right in front of her that the connection clicked.
Flashes of a moonlit beach—a
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