Page 50 of Viking

“Good kill, Viking,” Townsend says with a nod, tossing his gloves onto the console. “But next time, try not to kill your wingman because he hurt your feelings.”

Try not to kill your wingman.

I struggle to conceal my grimace.

Ryan slaps me on the back, grinning. “No hard feelings, sweetheart. Just remember—revenge is a dish best served fast and from above. And I’ve got all the time in the world to even the score.”

I shake my head, laughing.

Townsend looks down at his phone, his eyebrows drawing together in obvious concern. “I have to go meet with the commander,” he says, referring to our squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Fletcher.

I look at Ryan. And then Dalton. A silent exchange passes between us, the kind that doesn’t need words. We’ve been around long enough to know that when Townsend gets that look—tight jaw, clipped words—it’s not about routine admin.

Ryan takes a step toward Townsend, his usual smirk fading into something more serious. “What’s going on, Major?”

Townsend hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen like he’s debating what to say. Finally, he sighs and slips the phone into his pocket. “I don’t know much yet. Just…don’t make any big plans.”

My stomach tightens. I nod slowly, reading between the lines. Don’t make any big plans is code. Not for maybe, not for someday. It’s the kind of warning that means soon—sooner than we’re ready for.

Dalton shifts in his seat, his easygoing grin nowhere in sight now. “How soon?”

Townsend’s eyes meet mine for just a second before jumping to Ryan’s and Dalton’s. “Soon,” he repeats, then turns and walks out, leaving the word hanging in the air like the echo of an afterburner—deafening and impossible to ignore.

I stare at the door long after it clicks shut, my mind already spinning. My thoughts should be on the mission, the flight, the job. But all I can think about is Lila.

Hampton, Virginia

June 4, 2024

5:12 p.m.

Lila

“Who makes this big of a mess cooking?” I say to Logan, glancing around his kitchen. “It looks like a bomb went off in here.”

His house is a new build, all clean lines and industrial black finishes, the total opposite of my home. His kitchen is huge, the high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows only make it feel bigger. The cabinets are navy blue and the countertops, a clean white quartz complemented by a white-washed brick backsplash. A large hammered copper farmhouse sink sits under a picture window overlooking his fenced backyard. A matte black metal hanging pot rack is centered above the oversized wooden island adding warmth to the space. I never really considered buying a new build, worried it’d be totally void of character, but either this builder knew what he was doing or Logan has incredible taste because it’s lacking nothing. No corners were cut. It even has crown molding and beautiful trim around the doors and windows.

Logan laughs, dragging the back of his hand across his face and smearing flour along his cheek and jawline. It should look ridiculous. It doesn’t.

It’s annoyingly attractive.

“My grandmother’s from Italy. She taught me how to make pasta by hand and insisted the bigger the mess, the better the taste.” He shrugs, like that explains the state of the kitchen. “Besides, I cooked. And everyone knows the golden rule of dating, whoever doesn’t cook, cleans.”

He nods toward the war zone by the sink, then glances at the flour-dusted floor like he’s proud of it.

Maybe it’s his hair, messy from pushing it back with his wrist, his bare feet, or the confident way he owns the disaster he’s made without a hint of apology. He’s focused, a little cocky, and completely in control aside from the flour on his face, and somehow that just makes it worse. Or better. I don’t know.

What I do know is that six years is a long time to go without touching someone you never really got over. And watching him now—moving around like this is all normal, like he didn’t just create an entirely new fantasy for me, one scented with fresh herbs and Italian spices and buried in dishes—has me turning away from him and gripping the counter with both hands just to keep from making it real.

“Golden rule, huh?” I twist to face him, arching an eyebrow and trying hard not to smile.

He grabs a towel and tosses it over his shoulder like some smug domestic god, stirring the sauce like he doesn’t have a clue what he looks like right now.

Except he does.

He’s wearing athletic shorts that hit mid-thigh, leaving most of his muscular legs fully exposed. His long-sleeve shirt stretches across his broad chest and arms, each move flexing his biceps beneath the fabric. When he reaches for a pot hanging above the island, the hem of his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of sculpted abs.

He catches me staring.