“Your fuel came out of my tanks.”
He pointed toward the hangars.
“Those are mine.”
Then toward the runway.
“That’s mine too.”
Vivian’s expression froze.
The man picked up his wrench.
“So if you’re here to meet the owner, congratulations.”
A small electric cart came around the side of the hangar at that exact moment.
A heavyset man in a navy windbreaker nearly fell out before it fully stopped.
“Ethan!”
He hurried toward them carrying a leather folder.
Then he saw Vivian.
His face changed.
“Ms. Cross.”
Vivian looked from him to the mechanic.
The operations manager swallowed.
“Ms. Cross, this is Ethan Ward.”
He gestured toward the man with the wrench.
“Owner of Briar Ridge.”
Silence spread wider than the conversation.
The pilot standing near Vivian’s jet suddenly became intensely interested in the landing gear.
A fuel technician looked down.
One baggage handler turned away so quickly that it was obvious he had heard everything.
Vivian slowly pushed her sunglasses back up.
Ethan Ward’s expression remained infuriatingly neutral.
She looked at the old helicopter.
Then at the runway.
Then at him.
“You own the entire airfield?”
“Most of it.”
“What does most mean?”
“Everything your jet is touching.”
The operations manager coughed into his fist.
Vivian glanced at him.
He became silent immediately.
She looked back at Ethan.
“I was told Briar Ridge belonged to Ward Aviation Holdings.”
“It does.”
“You’re Ward Aviation Holdings?”
“I’m the Ward part.”
“And the holdings?”
He pointed at the ground.
Vivian stared.
Then, to his credit, Ethan did not smile.
That somehow made it worse.
She extended one hand.
“Vivian Cross.”
“I know.”
He looked at her clean hand.
Then at his grease-covered one.
Instead of shaking, he held up his palm.
“Probably better for your coat if we skip that.”
Vivian lowered her hand.
She disliked the embarrassment rising in her chest because embarrassment made people rush to regain control, and rushing to regain control usually created a second mistake.
So she did what years of boardrooms had trained her to do.
She slowed down.
“All right.”
Ethan waited.
“My comment about the helicopter was unnecessary.”
“Yes.”
Vivian raised an eyebrow.
“You could make this easier.”
“I could.”
“But?”
“You didn’t ask me to.”
The operations manager looked as though he wanted to disappear beneath the concrete.
Vivian nearly laughed.
Instead she said:
“I would like to discuss the acquisition proposal.”
Ethan’s expression changed at once.
Whatever amusement had existed disappeared.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard what I’m offering.”
“I’ve heard four offers.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
Vivian frowned.
“We sent three.”
Ethan gave her a look.
“That should bother you.”
Before she could answer, a girl appeared in the open hangar doorway.
She was perhaps nine years old, thin, brown-haired, wearing jeans, a purple sweatshirt, and pink noise-reduction headphones around her neck. A school backpack rested beside a folding table covered with notebooks and colored pencils.
“Dad?”
Ethan turned immediately.
His face softened in a way Vivian had not expected.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“The printer ate my worksheet.”
“It didn’t eat it.”
“It made a noise.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s inside.”
“Give me five minutes.”
The girl looked toward Vivian.
Children stared more honestly than adults.
Her eyes moved from Vivian’s boots to the private jet and back to the old helicopter.
“Is she the jet lady?”
Ethan closed his eyes.
Vivian almost smiled.