Page 12 of Viking

For a second, neither of us moves. Then he presses off the wall, crossing the room toward me. My stomach flips, a surge of excitement rushing through. And my mind flashes back to that night, to the way he looked at me, the way he felt, so different than anyone else I’ve ever known. And then it shifts forward to now, to this moment, where he’s here, sharing the oxygen in this room and I have to somehow act like nothing ever happened between us. I have to focus on my role here, my job. Not on him.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of jet fuel and sweat mixed with something uniquely him, sandalwood maybe? It’s intoxicating. The familiarity of him, the warmth, makes my stomach flutter. I fight the urge to hug him as I take in the sleek black of his uniform, of how well it fits him. “Viking James” is embroidered on the patch above his left pocket beneath an image of the fighter he just climbed out of. A few other patches adorn his flight suit, making him look every bit the decorated officer I’m sure he is considering where he is in his career.

Before he can say anything, Major Townsend clears his throat. The room is instantly silent. The air shifts with a collective attentiveness that feels ingrained and automatic. The pilots in flight suits, crew members in coveralls, and a few civilians like me all train our eyes on the major’s 6’3” muscular frame.

Townsend stands at the front, hands clasped behind his back, his voice carrying easily over the room. “I’ll be quick.” He gestures toward me, his sharp gaze flicking between the group and myself. “This is Lila Mercer. She’s joining the team as our new public affairs coordinator. She’ll be handling logistics for air shows, media coordination, and public outreach.”

There’s a brief beat of silence before I hear the faintest murmur of acknowledgment from the group, some nods, a few unreadable expressions. I can feel their quiet assessment, the weight of their unspoken thoughts. Do they know my dad pulled strings? Do they think I don’t belong here?

I swallow and keep my expression neutral.

Townsend continues, shifting slightly. “She comes to us with six years of experience in event planning, working directly with the military. So she knows what she’s doing.” There’s a slight emphasis there, maybe he’s aware of the unspoken judgments and maybe he’s cutting them off before they can solidify.

I school my face into a polite smile, my voice even when I finally speak. “I’m really excited to be here and to be working with all of you.”

Major Townsend nods once in approval, to the group, signifying the end of his announcement. He looks over at the two other pilots standing near the back of the room. They walk over. “Mercer, these are the guys you’ll be working with the most, myself included.”

I force my eyes up, meeting their gazes head-on. The first one steps forward, offering his hand. “Captain Ryan Carter, they call me Spartan,” he says, his grip firm, his expression open. His blond hair is cut sharp, his features lean and confident, his demeanor easygoing. “Welcome to the circus.” He squints, tilting his head slightly like he’s trying to place me and then recognition flashes in his warm hazel eyes and he smirks before glancing at Logan.

Viking! Introduce us to your friend.

I widen my eyes, begging him to keep quiet. “Looking forward to it.”

The next pilot nods, his golden-brown eyes studying me with quiet intensity. “Lieutenant Dalton Everett. Ghost.” He shakes my hand, his grip just as firm but his energy quieter, more measured. “Nice to meet you.” He’s quite a bit taller than me, but not as tall as the other pilots. His dark hair is cut short on the sides and the top has been left a little long, but still within regulation.

“And this,” Townsend says, gesturing to the last pilot—the one I’ve been desperately trying to avoid locking eyes with— “is Captain Logan James. Viking.”

His lips curve, just slightly, and his stormy eyes dance. “Lila.”

I hope to God no one notices the slight hitch in my breath. I force a nod, somehow managing to keep my voice even. “Captain.”

He smirks.

Townsend, oblivious of the quiet tension between Logan and me, runs his hands through his dark blond hair. “James, I need you to give Mercer a tour. Show her the hangar, the offices, where she’ll be working.”

I see a glimmer of something in Logan’s expression. Amusement, maybe? Annoyance? I can’t tell. But he nods solemnly, like this is just another task on his checklist. “Yes, sir.”

Townsend turns back to me. “That work for you, Mercer?”

No. Absolutely not.

“Yes, of course, sir,” I say, my smile automatic, my voice betraying none of the chaos inside me.

Townsend gives a brisk nod. “Good. The rest of you are dismissed.”

With that, the group starts to disperse, Ryan giving me a quick grin before stepping away, Dalton watching me for just a second longer before he follows.

And then it’s just Logan and me.

I let out a slow breath, my pulse hammering. Logan watches me, his stance relaxed, hands settling loosely on his hips.

“So,” he says, voice low, laced with edge. “Guess I’m your tour guide.”

I cross my arms, lifting a brow. “Don’t sound too excited about it.”

His lips curve again, something knowing in the way he looks at me. “Oh, I’m excited.”

I narrow my eyes. “Logan.”