“Nope.” Jonah lifts his baseball cap to smooth his scraggly mop of hair back, before sliding the cap back on. “Hey, Aggie, did George leave for Holy Cross already?”

“Still waiting on a package. He’ll take off as soon as it shows up.”

“And the supply run to St. Mary’s?”

“Joe’s probably landing right about now.”

“Good. Finally. Those guys have been waiting weeks for that ammunition ahead of the coming hunt,” he murmurs.

Despite my annoyance with him, I can’t help but admire the guy, seeing firsthand how in-tune Jonah is to Wild’s day-to-day operations. I can see why my dad relies on him so much. And why he’d think Jonah would be a suitable fit to keep the family business—that’s been the Fletchers’ lifeblood for decades—alive. And how critical Jonah’s help is going to be in the coming months, and years.

“Okay, then. We’re set.”

Where my stomach was tight before, now it begins to twist and turn with an odd mix of dread and excitement as I watch Jonah climb into the plane and slide on his headset.

“Have fun, Calla!” Agnes begins backing away.

Sonny is waiting for me with one hand on the door, anxious to close it. Orange sticks dangle from his free fingers.

I climb into my seat. It’s not nearly as crammed in here as it was in the Super Cub, but it’s far from roomy, which means Jonah’s arm is pressed against mine from shoulder to elbow and will be for as long as we’re in here. There’s no way around that with a pilot his size, I accept, and so I try to focus my thoughts on the front of the plane instead. It’s nothing but a panel of dials and switches and levers, with carved-out space on either side for our legs. Jonah’s fingers smoothly flick and press and pull over the panel with the expertise of someone who has done this a thousand times over.

A low rumble erupts from the engine of the plane and the propeller rotates once . . . twice . . . before the individual blades blur.

Jonah wordlessly holds a headset out for me. I accept it, acutely aware of how our fingers graze in the process.

Even if I am not attracted to him.

Even if I still want to punch him in the face.

“Can you hear me?” His deep voice rumbles in my ear.

“Yes. How old is this plane?” Because it looks like one of those cars from the movie Grease, with the quilted sides and the big metal handles to wind down the window in the door.

“Older than both of us.”

“Oh, great.” Cars half my age fall apart on the road and I’m supposed to trust this hunk of metal in the air?

“Don’t touch the yoke.”

“The what?”

His muscular arm bumps me as he reaches out to tap the black thing in front of me that reminds me of an oversized arcade game controller. It’s identical to the one in front of him. “Or the pedals on the floor. Those control the rudders.”

I don’t even know what rudders are. More importantly, “Where’s the barf bag?”

“You won’t need it.”

“My one experience flying with you says otherwise.”

“You’re not gonna get sick.”

“You can’t just will me not to. Where is it?”

He shakes his head and sighs heavily. “Under your seat.”

While Jonah signals in to the airport’s air traffic controller, I reach below and search, until my fingertips catch the soft paper edge. I pull it out and tuck it into a narrow holder on the side of the door.

“Relax, there’s no need to be scared,” Jonah warns into my ear as the plane begins to roll forward.

I don’t bother answering, instead focusing on Sonny as he strolls alongside us, waving those orange sticks. The plane bumps and jolts over the cracks in the pavement, bringing back an odd and dreaded sense of déjà vu.

I tug on my seat belt to tighten it, peering around at the small army of my father’s planes, some being loaded by busy grounds crew workers, others awaiting small clusters of tourists. I can’t tell if the runway ahead of us seems narrow and short against the wide expanse of flat land that surrounds us, or if it’s because the runway is in fact narrow and short.

“I don’t know how you can be Wren’s daughter and freak out this much in a small plane.”

“Because my first time in a small plane was a horrendous experience with a horrible, mean pilot,” I throw back.

His chest heaves. “Look, it was a shitty thing for me to do and I’m sorry.”

We’ve reached the end of Wild’s runway. I turn to meet his icy blue eyes and find rare sincerity in them. “Why’d you do it, then?”

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see what Wren Fletcher’s daughter was made of.”

“What I’m made of?” I snort. “Well, you came close to seeing what my stomach contents were made of.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t part of my plan.” His brow furrows tightly. “I saw all those pictures of you and figured you were one of those uppity city chicks that I can’t stand.”

I frown. “What pictures?”

“I don’t know. The ones Mabel showed me on her phone.”

He must be talking about my Instagram account. “What’s wrong with those pictures?”