Page 111 of Viking

And then she walks away—hip sway very much intentional—like she didn’t just set the entire hangar on fire and strut through the flames.

“Marry her,” Dalton says finally.

Wells lets out a low whistle. “I’d propose right now if she looked at me like that.”

I just shake my head, torn between wanting to die and wanting to kiss her stupid.

Stuart, Florida

November 9, 2024

11:00 a.m.

Lila

The crowd is electric, a buzz of anticipation rippling through the air. I weave through the VIP area, checking in with the event staff as I go. Everything seems to be running smoothly—vendors are stocked, security is in place, and the viewing area is packed. It’s a good turnout. A great one, even. But my focus keeps drifting back to the sky.

I stand near the edge of the cordoned-off section, clipboard in hand, my heart pounding in time with the distant whine of jet engines. The air smells like sunscreen and hot asphalt, with a faint hint of salt from the ocean just beyond the horizon. I cross my arms against the light breeze. The Florida sun is warm, but there’s a coolness in the air that reminds me it’s fall. Around me, kids run with miniature fighter jet toys, families are sprawled out on blankets, and vendors shout over the noise of the crowd.

I scan the runway, where two F-22 Raptors sit poised like sleek predators, their gunmetal bodies gleaming under the sun. Somewhere out there, Logan is getting ready, probably running through the preflight checklist with his ground crew. The thought makes my stomach flip. I press my lips together, smiling softly. He looked so handsome this morning. So focused and determined.

Nick’s voice crackles through the loudspeakers, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the unrivaled power of your United States Air Force’s F-22 Raptor. Flying today, we have Captain Logan ‘Viking’ James and Captain Wells ‘Saint’ Bennett.”

My breath falters a little on Wells’s name.

I’m sure it’ll take some getting used to for all of us.

A ripple of cheers spreads through the crowd, and I crane my neck, trying to keep my eyes on the jets as they begin to taxi down the runway. My heart is in my throat, and I feel a surge of pride—pride that one of those incredible pilots is mine.

The Raptors take off with a reverberating scream, climbing straight up into the sky in perfect synchronization. The wind from their ascent rustles my light green, short-sleeve button-up dress, the fabric dancing around my thighs and tangles the loose wisps of hair from my high bun with my sunglasses and protective earmuffs. My mouth falls open as the jets perform a series of tight rolls and flips, their movements impossibly graceful for machines that large. I really don’t think this will ever get old.

“They’re flying in formation now,” Nick narrates, his deep voice full of admiration. “Watch how they execute the vertical climb. Both pilots are pulling over nine gs of force right now.”

I clutch my chest as the Raptors soar skyward, twisting through the clouds like dancers, their maneuvers perfectly coordinated.

Nick continues. “That was the Cobra maneuver, one of the most difficult moves to execute in the Raptor. It demonstrates the F-22’s unmatched ability to slow down mid-flight, almost defying physics.”

The crowd erupts in applause as the jets dive, bank, and loop around each other with breathtaking precision. My heart races with every turn, the sound of the engines vibrating in my chest. I can’t help but smile.

The demonstration ends with a dramatic power loop, the two Raptors streaking toward the runway in unison before touching down with effortless grace. The crowd is on its feet, cheering wildly, and I’m right there with them. My hands are tingling from clapping so hard.

I remove my earmuffs and force myself to refocus, checking my earpiece as the event team relays updates. The pilots are heading to the signing booth soon. VIP guests are being escorted to their designated meet-and-greet area. I should be there already, making sure things are running smoothly. But my feet have a mind of their own, carrying me toward the edge of the tarmac where the flight crews are gathered.

And then I see him.

Logan steps down from the cockpit, pulling off his helmet, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened hair. When he looks up, his gray-blue eyes find mine instantly.

I swallow hard.

I should go back. I should let him debrief, let him have his moment with the team before he meets the fans.

But Logan doesn’t hesitate. He hands off his helmet to his crew chief, murmurs something to Wells, then strides toward me with purpose.

My breath catches as he stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, his body still thrumming with adrenaline. His gaze sweeps over me, taking me in like he’s grounding himself.

I manage a small smile. “Not bad for your first show back.”

His chuckle is quiet, his voice rough. “Not bad?” He shakes his head. “I’ll take it.”