That’s my ride.

Monica glanced at the sky coming to life above her and reminded herself that those who needed her help were subject to an earthquake and a tsunami. None of which happened in the sky.

Still, her fingers tingled.

A hand clasped onto her shoulder. “Ready?”

Monica’s fingernails dug into her palms. Her head swiveled toward Donald. A slight lift to his lips was the only emotion on his face.

“Ready,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

Lord knew she understood how to fake it. From orgasms to happiness, so faking confidence was easy.

She shoved her backpack up on her shoulder and straightened her spine. Donald moved in front of her to speak to the pilot. Monica hesitated until Tina nudged her shoulder.

“Ready?”

“Born ready.”

Tina snorted and turned toward Walt.

Monica forced her feet toward the chopper as if she was born to ride in the tin box with a single propeller on top and a tiny one in the back. How the hell did the thing actually fly? It didn’t have wings.

Donald’s back was to her as he spoke to someone. He twisted when she approached, revealing a man. His dark hair was too long, his jaw held more stubble than would be considered sexy. He wore a button-up silk shirt and khaki cargo shorts. And no shoes.

Monica took in his bare feet and forced her gaze back to the man’s face. Strong jaw with a firm set. No smile. His eyes were covered with dark glasses but they didn’t detract from the pure masculinity of the man. He had to stand at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist…

“Monica? Monica?”

She was checking out the man and not realizing someone spoke her name.

“Yeah?”

“This is your pilot. He thinks you should ride in front. Let Tina and Walt take the back.”

Her eyes skidded from Donald’s face to that of the barefoot stranger. “He’s the pilot?”

“One of the best on the island.”

The pilot dipped his head as if he were sizing her up. Then abruptly turned toward the helicopter.

“He’s barefoot,” she whispered. As if a lack of shoes meant he couldn’t fly the helicopter. If I take off my shoes, I’m still a nurse.

Donald didn’t hear her words. The pilot was already jumping into his seat and making the propeller above her head move.

She ducked and allowed Donald to push her toward the door. Behind her, Tina and Walt were climbing into the backseat.

Monica’s hands were sweaty and at the same time cold as she allowed herself to be pushed into the small, suffocating aircraft.

“You’ll be fine,” Donald yelled in her ear as the noise of the chopper made it impossible to hear normal conversation.

Monica nodded. Her nephew, Danny, would be laughing at her if he could see the panic in her eyes.

She forced herself into the passenger seat and ignored the sound of the door closing her in. Shoeless and sexy shoved headgear into her lap. Monica glanced his way as he switched levers and went through some sort of series of system checks before they took off.

Behind her, Tina and Walt were buckling into their seats.

Monica shifted to her right and found her belt. She secured it and fumbled with the headgear before the noise in the chopper overcame her.

Once the earmuffs were on, the noise lessened, giving her a moment of calm.

The chopper shifted, and Monica’s racing pulse lodged in her throat.

“You going to be sick?”

Soft and non-accusatory, Barefoot’s voice sounded in her ears.

Her heart was racing, but she’d yet to feel her stomach churn. “I’m OK.”

Far from OK, but maybe her voice would convince him otherwise.

Barefoot snorted. A full-on snort complete with a shake of his head. He reached over and pried her fingers off her backpack and placed them onto a large rod in the center of the chopper.

“Hold this,” he told her. “When I say up, push it forward. When I say down, pull it back.”

What? Shit. Was she some kind of copilot? “You can’t fly this thing on your own?”

“You’re shotgun, Blondie. And everyone licensed to fly is solo today.”

Monica’s stomach lodged near her thyroid. She glanced to the back of the chopper where Tina and Walt were giving her a smile.

“They can’t hear us,” Barefoot managed.

“Why not?”

Instead of answering, he gave a thumbs-up to someone out the window and grasped his controls with both hands.

He can’t really mean he needs me to help him fly this machine.

“Up.”

Monica shoved the stick forward with the command and ignored her brain telling her to get off the damn chopper and walk toward the needy.

The chopper lurched and within seconds, they were in the air. The tarmac disappeared with alarming speed. Those on the ground scrambled into the next chopper and Monica felt her already chilly insides grow even colder.

Barefoot’s hand left his controls and kept her hand on the stick between them. “Keep pushing it up,” he instructed.

“You can’t fly this thing on your own?”

Instead of answering, he moved his hand away and switched a lever on his side. Monica kept her hand shoved forward, as if it were a joystick on a video game and she was close to breaking her all-time record. This isn’t happening. The sky was streaming at her, the earth was slipping away, and she had her life in her hands. Walt’s and Tina’s, too. Not to mention Barefoot’s. Not that she cared about him. Who brought a passenger on board and expected them to help pilot the flight?