Manny Ruiz, 53, retired air show stunt pilot turned vintage prop plane restoration specialist, leans against a splintered pine picnic table at the county fire department’s annual chili cookoff, half-empty domestic lager in one hand, a smudge of bean chili crusting the cuff of his frayed navy flannel. He’d been dragged to the event by his hangar neighbor, who’d badgered him for three straight days about “getting out from under that rusted P-51 and talking to actual humans for once.” The air reeks of smoked sausage, cumin, and charcoal, peanut shells crunching under his scuffed steel-toe boots every time he shifts his weight, already mapping his escape route to the parking lot before anyone can rope him into judging the hottest chili category.
He’s just about to push off the table when he catches the scent of coconut sunscreen mixed with vanilla lip balm, close enough that the edge of a frayed fire department polo brushes his bicep before he can turn. Lila Marlow, 30, the county’s new fire marshal, and the only daughter of his late stunt partner Jase, holds a chipped plastic bowl of chili in one hand, reaching for a stack of napkins on the table beside him, her elbow brushing the thin, silvery scar that slices across his left jaw when she moves. The contact makes him flinch, and she huffs a quiet laugh, holding his gaze for three full beats longer than casual acquaintance would call for, the corner of her mouth tugged up in a smirk he recognizes as pure Jase.
He’d been avoiding her for six weeks, ever since she’d started stopping by his hangar for random safety inspections, flashing her badge and asking too many questions about the 1970 Cessna he’s restoring, the one he and Jase had been building for half a decade before the 2018 crash that killed Jase and ended Manny’s stunt career. He still carries the guilt like a brick in his chest, convinced he could’ve called the abort sequence 10 seconds earlier, could’ve saved Jase if he’d just paid closer attention to the engine sputters. The idea of being anywhere near his best friend’s daughter, let alone feeling the stupid, hot flicker of attraction he gets every time she grins at him, makes his skin itch, makes him feel like he’s betraying the guy who once bailed him out of jail for drunk drag racing in the early 90s.
“Been trying to catch you when you’re not hiding under a plane wing,” she says, shifting her weight so her boots are almost touching his, no space left between them when a group of drunk firefighters stumbles past, forcing her closer for half a second. She smells like campfire smoke too, now, and Manny’s throat goes dry. He mumbles something about being busy, eyes darting to the parking lot again, and she rolls her eyes, grabbing his wrist with a warm, calloused hand to stop him from leaving. “Calm down, I’m not here to write you a citation for improper fire extinguisher storage. I found something of yours in my dad’s old storage unit, figured you’d want it back.”
“I read the NTSB report, you know,” she says, soft enough that he almost misses it over the distant sound of the cookoff’s cover band playing a terrible 90s country cover. “I know it wasn’t your fault. Dad talked about you all the time, said you were the best pilot he ever flew with. He’d be pissed if he knew you were still beating yourself up over it.”
Manny’s throat tightens, the brick in his chest feeling lighter for the first time in four years. He wants to say it’s wrong, that he’s 23 years older than her, that her dad would’ve chased him around the airfield with a tire iron if he knew Manny thought about her when he was alone at the hangar late at night, but before he can speak she leans up, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the scar on his jaw, her lip balm sweet against his skin. He doesn’t pull away.
He tucks the journal under his arm, his free hand finding hers, calloused fingers lacing together easily, like they were made to fit. He asks her if she wants to come back to the hangar, says he’s got a bottle of Jase’s favorite bourbon stashed under his workbench, that he can show her the progress he’s made on the Cessna, the custom paint job he’s planning with Jase’s favorite racing stripes down the side. She grins, squeezing his hand, and he knows Jase would be laughing his ass off right now, teasing him for taking so long to make a move.
They walk to his old pickup truck side by side, the last of the sun sinking below the trees, the distant sound of the country band fading behind them.
