And this Wally fell somewhere in-between. A decent guy, probably born and raised in Alaska. So it would surprise Jeffrey if Wally, working at a one-person airport counter in remote Alpine, Alaska, had seen the Forbes article and recognized Jeffrey.
As the card cleared, Wally continued staring at Jeffrey, then glanced behind his shoulder, then back to Jeffrey.
Jeffrey looked over Wally’s shoulder into a square mirror where he caught his reflection. Strange. His neatly trimmed dark brown hair curled over his collar in the mirror. That’s when he realized it was no mirror, but a window. And he was staring into some guy’s face who was looking back at him, his hazel eyes flashing surprise.
It was like looking into some kind of distorted reflection, as though Jeffrey were seeing a more craggy, weathered version of himself.
Hell, it was like looking at himself. There was that damn cowlick he’d wrestled with his entire life, right at the crown of his—well, that guy’s—head. Even the size of his—well, that guy’s, too—ears. Jeffrey never thought his ears were that big, but several girlfriends had giggled they were the biggest, sexiest ears they’d ever whispered into.
Jeffrey squinted.
Yeah, that guy definitely had his ears.
What were the odds that two men, in a chance encounter, looked alike, had matching cowlicks and the same big, sexy ears? Had to be less than one percent of the population of the entire world. No, even less than that.
I’m losing it.
He wiped his hand across his face, welcoming the cold jolt of snow crystals that still clung to his leather glove. Seeing transmutations of himself had to be the effects of the long flight from New York to Anchorage, then the commuter hop here to Alpine. Throw in some stale airline peanuts, and anyone would see things.
Outside, the roar of an engine distracted him. His gaze shifted to another window, through which he saw a Cessna barreling at some insane angle toward the ground. Jeffrey was always aware of the impression he was making, but nothing could have stopped him from yelling an expletive and pointing toward the impending crash.
“Looks like Thompson’s right on time,” said Wally.
Stunned, Jeffrey watched as the plane jerked up at the last moment, its wheels miraculously touching the tarmac before the machine shuddered to a stop with mere feet of asphalt to spare.
Jeffrey waited until his pounding heart leveled off. “Is Thompson the pilot flying to Arctic Luck?”
“You bet.”
“I want another flight.” No way in hell was he getting into some stunt pilot’s death-wish plane.
“No other flights to Arctic Luck today.”
“Is this an airport?”
Wally paused, his clear blue eyes taking in Jeffrey. “It is.”
“Then call whoever’s in charge. Get another flight here.” Jeffrey hadn’t graduated Princeton’s business school summa cum laude, and been a successful business maverick, without learning a few tricks about managing people. He glanced at a handwritten sign taped onto Wally’s computer. Keep The Customer Satisfied. “Because I’m a customer and I want satisfaction.”
Wally tapped a key on the computer, then shifted his weight so he faced Jeffrey. “We’d be more than happy, Mr. Bradshaw, to get you another flight, but our most recent weather bulletin says there’s a storm building off the Gulf. Thompson’s our best bush pilot and, right now, your only option for a flight to Arctic Luck.”
On cue, a wiry teenage boy dressed in jeans and a parka pushed open the swinging door from the hangar. Pausing, he shoved back his baseball cap and raked fingers through his short, black hair. Upon seeing Jeffrey, his big brown eyes widened, then swerved to look at the guy in the window.
Wally waved a paper at the boy, who did another doubletake at Jeffrey and the guy in the window before accepting the paper. He promptly looked at it, then back at Jeffrey with a broad grin. “Howdy.”
The voice was…softer than Jeffrey expected. “Hello.”
The kid held out his hand.
Jeffrey paused, then offered his. For such a small hand, this teenager sure had a hearty shake. “You’re Thompson?”
“Yes. You’re heading to Arctic Luck?”
Was this kid even old enough for a pilot’s license? Wonderful. An illegal, daredevil pilot. Jeffrey learned long ago to never accept “no” for an answer. Keep stalling, asking for another flight to Arctic Luck, and things could happen. “I’m taking another flight.”
The boy released the handshake. “Then you’re going to be waiting for a long time.” He held up the paper. “Storm’s coming in.”
“So I’ve heard.”
The boy grinned again, then swaggered off to the pop machine. But instead of inserting coins, he gave it a calculated punch that released a drink.
“Are you canceling or taking the flight?” asked Wally.
Jeffrey weighed his odds. He could forego this trip to Arctic Luck, which meant he wouldn’t have the first-hand data he needed at the Argonaut board meeting early Monday morning. A key meeting where Harold Gauthier, chairman of the board, was making a special appearance to hear the pros and cons for the Alaskan film series Jeffrey was pitching, a romantic comedy along the lines of Ed meets Northern Exposure to be called Sixty Below. Not only was Jeffrey overseeing this deal, he’d written the story, which he’d set in a hypothetical Alaskan town. But now that the deal was nearing closure, it was imperative Jeffrey actually see the proposed location so he could speak formidably about how this frontier town was integral to the success of the series.
He had originally planned on flying in today, Saturday, then researching Arctic Luck tonight and tomorrow. Later on Sunday, he’d scheduled flights back to Alpine, then Anchorage, with a final flight to Los Angeles late Sunday night. He’d then catch some shut-eye and be ready for Monday morning’s meeting.
His alternative plan? To not fly to Artic Luck because he had a ten percent chance of dying thanks to Thompson’s death-defying flying tactics.
And then there was the issue of his promotion from acquisitions director to vice president of development at Argonaut Studios. Cinching this series would cinch the title.
“Yes, I still want to take the flight.” Jeffrey took in a sobering breath of air and hoped it wasn’t his last.
CYD THOMPSON WAITED at the door to the hangar for Mr. Big City to hustle over his smug self so she could usher him to the plane. As he sauntered toward her, she checked him out. Pretty fancy clothes, there. Fancy and damn impractical. Hadn’t anybody warned him that those leather loafers wouldn’t prevent his feet from freezing if the snow was sticking to the ground in Arctic Luck? And that coat—it would keep him warm for, oh, maybe three seconds. Give or take a second.
She stared at his face. Eerie how he looked like her boss, Jordan, who owned True North Airlines. Cyd rarely got unnerved, but seeing the resemblance had definitely thrown her off.
She glanced at the window to Jordan’s office. Damn amazing how these two guys shared the same hair—rich molasses color with that funky wave at the crown. And although Mr. City Slicker had barely smiled a greeting, something about his and Jordan’s smiles were alike, too. The way their lips crooked a little to the side, kinda like Harrison Ford.
“Ready?” Mr. City Slicker, tucking his wallet neatly into the inside of his jacket, looked questioningly at her.
Jeez, even their voices were similar. Rock-bottom husky. Although Mr. City Slicker definitely had more of an edge to his. But then, most city people did.
“Yes,