She might not want a relationship with him anymore, but her ego still nudged her to be careful. They were inching toward dangerous—tempting—territory every time they spoke.
He strode past. She grabbed the door frame to support her suddenly shaky knees.
She watched him saunter into her apartment, a place he'd never stepped inside before. Seven months ago she'd been finishing up at UNC. Their one night together had been at his place, a beach community bungalow he'd bought from another military family when they'd moved.
She wondered what he thought of her bargain-basement Pier 1 knockoffs and the scattered plants she'd grafted from her mother's garden in an attempt to fill corners she couldn't afford to decorate.
Why was she thinking about appearances now when she'd never cared about material things before? If Carson Hunt— obviously from wealth—was only impressed by a price tag, then she was well rid of him.
He stopped short in front of her class's latest history project. "What the hell is this?"
She laughed and damn it felt good, almost as good as the rush because he'd noticed her most prized possession in the whole place. Her students had crafted the towering project which made it worth gold to her. Nikki walked deeper into the apartment, surreptitiously hiding the used handkerchief under a throw pillow until she could wash it.
Nikki tugged a tissue from the end table on her way to the six-foot-high papier-mâché creation she'd brought home from school strapped into the back of her Ford Ranger. "It's a sarcophagus."
"Ohhh-kay." Hands hooked in the pockets of his leather flight jacket, he studied the psychedelic coffin propped against the island counter separating the small kitchen from the rest of the dining area. "While I don't claim to be an interior design expert, why do you have one in your dining room?"
She ambled closer, determined not to bemoan the fact she was wearing nothing but ratty gym shorts and a threadbare T-shirt over her damp body. "My students are studying Egyptian history. The kids have been crafting papier-mâché items to go in the tomb, and we tried to build this in class, too, but Trey Baker spilled his lunch inside the sarcophagus and tapioca pudding totally stinks when it rots, so I had to cut that part out. Although what kid actually eats tapioca? Most children I know like chocolate pudding with candy sprinkles or gummies, or maybe a cookie crumbled on top.">He had enough on his plate staying sober and doing his job. Speaking of which, he had a young pilot here in need of leading right now. Being an Air Force officer was about more than flying. He had a duty to train, mentor, motivate future leaders.
The failure with Owens weighed heavily on his shoulders today. He'd been certain the man was shaking his gambling problem. He'd even begun attending support meetings with other addicts.
Carson thumbed the interphone button. "Lieutenant Avery, let's talk. Career planning can never start too early. What's your goal?"
The wiry young pilot who probably weighed all of a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet answered, "To be the Chief of Staff, sir."
Seabrook snorted into the headset from the jump seat. "Lieutenant, it may have escaped your notice, but since Curtis LeMay died, all the Chiefs of Staff have been fighter pilots."
"Oh." The scrawny kid deflated in his leather seat.
Damn. You'd think she stole the kid's ice-cream cone. "She has a point, but things change. Military transport is the fastest growing airframe, and we're raking in those medals. So you never know. What's your plan for making Chief of Staff?"
"I plan to be the best aviator I can be, sir."
Ambitions were all well and good, but he definitely needed to have a sit-down with this kid later about specific choices for different career paths, or before he knew it, he would be in a job he hadn't foreseen, either. "How about we settle on a more immediate goal today, with tangible early results."
"And what would that be, sir?"
"You tell me?" Take some initiative, kid. Having a goal was great, but setting attainable immediate goals to get there was even more important. In the last three months, Carson had tried to be the mentor to Owens he hadn't found around himself near enough. A.A. meetings had taught him well the necessity of guidance and support, one-day-at-a-time steps.
"I'd like to earn a call sign, a cool one like yours, sir."
Avery thought the call sign "Scorch" was cool? Jesus, it came from the mortifying moment of setting his own mustache on fire with the flaming Dr Pepper drink in a bar.
Seabrook laughed, husky and slightly wicked. "So you're not enjoying the call sign always reserved for the newest aviator."
Avery winced. "No, ma'am."
"Then get to work earning a new name, Bambi."
Carson smothered a laugh at the lieutenant's shudder of disgust over the undignified moniker. "I'll keep my eye on you and see what new handle I can come up with."
"Thank you, sir. If it's okay, I'd like to step in back for a walk-around before landing."
"Roger, cleared to unstrap."
Bambi unbuckled the harness holding him in the copilot's seat and ducked out of the cockpit for the stairwell leading to the cargo hold. Captain Seabrook slid into the empty copilot's seat on the right and settled behind the stick, scanning the control panel. "Tough to believe we were once that idealistic."
"Maybe because we weren't." In those days his only plans centered around escaping his family legacy. The rigid structure of the military provided a blessed relief to a childhood spent not knowing what to expect from minute to minute with coke addict parents.