Page 49 of Heartbreak Baby

GOLDIE: you’re not off to a great start

SUMNER: We had a minor engine issue and came back early

SUMNER: Everything’s fine though

SUMNER: We’re back on the ground now

Her reply comes through before I even put the phone back in my pocket.

GOLDIE: um, excuse me?

GOLDIE: an ENGINE issue?

GOLDIE: are you okay???

SUMNER: I’m good

SUMNER: Just a lot of paperwork to deal with now

SUMNER: I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.

By the time we finish the post-flight debrief with the chief and fill out the mountain of maintenance paperwork, I'm completely wiped out. The leftover effects of the adrenaline crash have settled deep into my muscles, leaving me stiff and aching from sitting in a hard plastic chair for two hours.

I roll my neck, wincing at the sharp pop of a joint, as we finally walk out of the hangar. Colston claps a hand on my shoulder.

"Dude, you look like you aged five years since we touched down," Colston says, stretching his own back. "I think our near-death experience calls for a beer.”

“It wasn’t⁠—”

He throws his arm over my shoulder. “No arguing. We’re hitting up Last Call."

CHAPTER 15

SUMNER

I sink into the booth at our favorite bar just off base and pull my phone out to shoot Goldie an update.

SUMNER: Grabbing a quick beer with Jenny

SUMNER: I'll call you when I get home

Colston slides in across from me, his eyes glued to his own screen. He snorts a laugh and kicks my shin under the table. "Goldie just texted me."

I look up. "What did she say?"

"She wants to know if you're actually okay or if you're full of shit." Colston taps his screen, his smirk widening. "I told her you were fine, just cranky and buying the first round."

I roll my eyes, though honestly, I like that the two of them get along well enough to gang up on me. I'm about to tell him to put his phone away as I click my screen dark and shove my own into my pocket, but a massive shadow falls over the table.

"You look like shit, Wells," a familiar, deep voice says.

My head snaps up, and I grin at one of my favorite people. "Trace."

Trace, my other best friend—or my second best friend, as Colston likes to call him—stands at the edge of the booth. He’s a beast of a dude, tall and broad, and he looms over the table. He sets a fresh pitcher of beer on the sticky wood, his arm flexing as he pulls me up into a hard, quick bro-hug. I haven’t seen him in six months, and having him standing here right now is exactly what I didn't know I needed.

"When the hell did you get into town?" I ask, sitting back down while he and Colston lean over the table to slap hands and yank each other into a rough back-slapping hug.

"A couple of hours ago," Trace says, grabbing a stack of pint glasses and sliding into the booth next to me. "The university just threw a big-ass grant at us for a Gulf project. So it's your lucky day, man—I'm operating out of MacDill and the Lakeland base for the rest of hurricane season."