Chapter 4: A Dress, a Dinner, and a Decision
The dress was a mistake.
Kara knew it the second she pulled it over her head, the white fabric sliding down her body like it had been made for someone else. Someone taller. Someone who didn't spend her days strapped into an ejection seat, her shoulders broad from years of pulling back the stick, her thighs thick from pressing against rudder pedals.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and stared at herself.
The dress was short. Really short. It hit mid-thigh, which was already a problem, and the neckline plunged in a way that made her feel exposed, vulnerable, like someone who cared about things like necklines and hemlines and whether her bra strap was showing.
Which it was.
"Fuck," she muttered, tugging at the strap.
Her phone buzzed on the bed. Amy's face filled the screen, her eyebrows already raised in that way that said she was prepared to be brutally honest.
"Show me," Amy demanded.
Kara turned the phone toward the mirror.
Amy was silent for a long moment. Then: "Holy shit, Mitchell."
"That bad?"
"That good. Jesus Christ, why do you own that dress if you never wear it?"
"Because my mother bought it for me three Christmases ago and I forgot it existed until you dug it out of the back of my closet like some kind of fashion archaeologist."
"Wear it."
"It's too short."
"It's perfect. Your legs look insane."
"My legs are covered in bruises from the cockpit."
"So are mine from spin class. Nobody cares." Amy leaned closer to the camera, her eyes narrowing. "Are those trainers?"
Kara looked down at her feet. White sneakers, slightly scuffed, completely at odds with the dress. "You said casual."
"I said cute casual. Not 'I'm about to go for a jog' casual."
"They're comfortable."
"They're hideous. Do you have anything else?"
Kara glanced at the pile of rejected clothes on her bed. Jeans. A black top. Another black top. A blazer she'd worn to her last promotion ceremony. Nothing that said I'm going on a date with a professional athlete who's seen me naked and still wants to buy me dinner.
"No," she admitted.
"Then the trainers stay. But only because your legs are doing all the heavy lifting." Amy paused. "Are you wearing your mother's necklace?"
Kara touched the thin gold chain at her throat. It had been a graduation gift, something her mother had pressed into her palm with a tight smile and the words "Maybe you'll wear it to something other than a briefing someday."
"Yeah," she said. "Is that weird?"
"It's perfect. It's the only thing in that entire outfit that says you're not completely terrified."
"I'm not terrified."
"You're literally shaking."
Kara looked at her hands. Amy was right. She was trembling, just slightly, a fine vibration in her fingers that she hadn't noticed until now.
"It's been three years," she said quietly.
"Since what?"
"Since I went on an actual date. Not a hookup. Not a deployment fling. An actual, planned, I'm-wearing-a-dress-and-he's-buying-dinner date."
Amy's expression softened. "Kara."
"Don't."
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying. And I don't need to hear it." Kara took a breath, squared her shoulders, and looked at herself in the mirror again. The dress was still short. The trainers were still hideous. But the necklace caught the light, and her eyes looked bright, and for a second, she almost believed she could do this.
"He's just a guy," she said, more to herself than to Amy. "A really hot, really famous guy who I already slept with. No pressure."
"That's the spirit."
"I hate you."
"You love me. Text me when you're home. Or don't. Actually, definitely text me. I want details."
Kara hung up.
---
Ty arrived at eight o'clock exactly.
She heard the knock and felt her stomach lurch, a ridiculous, teenage reaction that she hadn't experienced in years. She grabbed her keys, checked her reflection one last time, and opened the door.
And promptly forgot how to breathe.
He was wearing a fitted navy polo that stretched across his chest in a way that should have been illegal, and chinos that hugged his thighs without being indecent. His hair was damp, like he'd just showered, and he smelled like cedar and something citrusy. His jaw was clean-shaven, and his eyes—those dark, impossibly warm eyes—traveled over her slowly, deliberately, like he was memorizing every inch.
The look made her blush.
"Wow," he said.
"Don't."
"I'm serious. You look—" He shook his head, a small, disbelieving smile crossing his face. "That dress is unfair."
"It's too short."
"It's perfect." He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, and his hand came up to touch the necklace at her throat. "This is nice. Special?"
"My mother's."
"Admiral's wife has good taste."
"She'd be horrified to hear you say that. She thinks I'm a disappointment."
Ty's eyebrows rose. "Why?"
"Because I chose a cockpit over a country club." Kara shrugged, trying to play it off. "She wanted me to marry a senator. I wanted to fly fighter jets. We don't exactly see eye to eye."
"Fighter jets are cooler."
"I know."
He laughed, and the sound settled something in her chest. "You ready?"
"Born ready."
---
His car was a Corvette. Of course it was. Cherry red, low to the ground, the kind of vehicle that screamed I have money and I want everyone to know it. Kara slid into the passenger seat and immediately felt like she was sitting on the floor.
"This car is compensating for something," she said.
Ty shot her a look as he started the engine. "You're about to find out."
"That a promise?"
The grin he gave her was pure sin. He pulled out of the parking lot, and Kara watched the city slide by through the passenger window, the lights blurring into streaks of gold and white. The engine hummed beneath them, a low, powerful rumble that vibrated through her seat and into her bones.
The restaurant was in a part of town she rarely visited—all valet parking and wrought-iron fences and menus without prices. Ty handed his keys to an attendant and led her inside with a hand on the small of her back, a gesture so casual and possessive that Kara didn't know whether to lean into it or step away.
The hostess seated them at a corner table, tucked away from the main dining room. The lighting was dim, candles flickering on each table, and the walls were lined with dark wood and abstract art that probably cost more than Kara's rent.
"This is fancy," she said, unfolding her napkin.
"Too fancy?"
"Depends on how good the whiskey is."
Ty ordered a bottle of something expensive without looking at the prices. When the waiter left, he leaned back in his chair and studied her across the table.
"So," he said. "You're a pilot."
"You're a football player."
"We've established that."
"Where do we go from here?"
He laughed, the same warm, surprised laugh from the stadium, and Kara felt her shoulders loosen. "I'm genuinely curious," he said. "Fighter jets. That's not a normal job."
"What's a normal job?"
"Literally anything else."
She took a sip of whiskey and considered the question. "I got into aviation because of my dad. He was a pilot, flew F-14s in the eighties. When I was a kid, he used to take me to air shows, and I'd watch the Blue Angels and think—that's what I want to do. I want to be up there."
"And he supported you?"
"He was the only one who did." She shrugged. "My mom wanted me to go to law school. My high school guidance counselor told me I should be a nurse. Everyone assumed I'd grow out of it, that it was just a phase."
"But you didn't."
"I flew my first solo at sixteen. Got my commercial license at eighteen. Commissioned a year later." She paused, swirling the whiskey in her glass. "It's the only thing I've ever been sure of."
Ty was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than she'd expected.
"What's it like? Being up there?"
"In a fighter jet? It's like—" She closed her eyes, searching for the words. "It's the only place where nothing else matters. No past, no future. Just you and the machine and the sky. You're moving at seven hundred miles an hour, pulling nine Gs, and the whole world shrinks down to this one point of focus. It's terrifying and it's beautiful and I've never found anything else like it."
She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing. Just—" He shook his head. "You talk about it like it's a person. Like you're in love."
"I guess I am."
The waiter arrived with their food, a parade of dishes Kara couldn't name and didn't bother trying to pronounce. She picked up her fork and eyed the plate.
"This is very... aesthetic," she said.
"That means you don't know what it is."
"I know exactly what it is. It's expensive."
"Fair point." Ty started eating, and Kara followed suit. The food was good, but the portions were tiny, and she found herself wishing for a burger and fries.
"So," she said, "why football?"
He chewed for a moment, considering. "Same reason, I guess. The focus. The clarity. When I'm on the field, everything else disappears."
"What else is there?"
His expression flickered, just for a second, something tightening behind his eyes. "Family stuff. Nothing interesting."
Kara set down her fork. "Try me."
Ty looked at her for a long moment, like he was deciding whether she was worth the truth. Then he sighed and leaned back.
"My parents—they're not great with money. Never have been. Growing up, we were always one missed paycheck away from losing everything. I remember sleeping on the floor of our apartment because we couldn't afford beds. And when I got drafted, when I started making real money, I promised myself I'd never let them worry about rent again."
"Your parents."
"Yeah."
"You send them money."
"Every month. A lot of it." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that belied his usual ease. "They don't know I'm telling you this. They'd be mortified. But it's—it's the only thing that makes the money feel earned. Like I'm not just some asshole getting paid to catch a ball."
"Do they know you're supporting them?"
"Of course they know. But we don't talk about it. They just... take it. And I just... give it. And we all pretend it's not the thing that defines our relationship."
Kara's chest tightened. "Why do you keep doing it?"
"Because they're my parents." He shrugged. "And because I'm terrified of being like them. If I stop giving, if I let myself be selfish—what does that make me?"
"It makes you human."
"It makes me an asshole."
"No." She leaned forward, her voice firm. "It makes you a person who's been carrying a weight for too long. There's a difference."
Ty looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped completely. Underneath the cocky grin and the magazine covers and the woman magnet reputation, he was just a kid from a broke home who was scared of becoming his parents. A kid who threw money at a problem and called it love because he didn't know how to do anything else.
Kara understood that. She understood it more than she'd ever admit.
---
They split the bill, despite Ty's protests.
"I asked you out," he argued. "That means I pay."
"It means you picked the restaurant. It doesn't mean I'm a charity case."
"I never said—"
"Relax, Brooks. You can buy me a drink later."
The waiter bid them a farewell that bordered on snooty, and Kara rolled her eyes as they left. Ty caught her expression and grinned.
"What?"
"That guy. 'Have a pleasant evening, sir.' He didn't even look at me while he said it."
"He looked at you plenty while you weren't watching."
"Doesn't count."
They walked out of the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against Kara's bare legs. Ty's hand found hers, his fingers warm and calloused, and Kara didn't pull away.
"I know a place," he said. "Little dive bar, about ten minutes from here. Good whiskey, no pretension. You in?"
"Lead the way."
---
The bar was exactly what Kara needed—dim lights, sticky floors, a jukebox in the corner playing something old and slow. Ty found them a booth in the back, and Kara slid in beside him instead of across.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Efficient," she said. "Less distance to travel."
"Travel where?"
"You'll see."
They ordered two whiskeys, neat, and Kara drank hers like medicine, letting the heat spread through her chest. Ty watched her with amusement.
"Slow down."
"No."
"You're going to get drunk."
"I'm not going to get drunk. I'm going to get comfortable." She turned to face him, her knee brushing his thigh. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Mmhm."
She reached under the table and put her hand on his leg. His muscles tightened under her fingers, and she felt a flash of satisfaction. She'd wondered, in the back of her mind, whether last night had been a fluke. Whether the chemistry would still be there in the light of day.
It was.
Ty's breath hitched. "Kara."
His voice was low, a warning and a request. She let her hand drift higher, toward the button of his pants.
"Touch me," she said.
His eyes met hers. They were hungry, but reluctant. "Not here."
"I didn't say where." She leaned closer, her lips a few inches from his ear. "I'll tell you."
She told him.
And she felt something harden against her palm.
Ty's jaw clenched. He caught her wrist, but didn't push her away.
"Where's your place?" he said, his voice rough.
"I'll give you directions."
He threw some bills on the table and pulled her out of the bar. In the parking lot, he pressed her against the side of his Corvette and kissed her, hard and fast, his hips grinding against hers.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmured against her mouth.
"Probably."
She slipped out from under his arm and got in the car.
---
The drive was torture.
Kara gave directions in a voice that was deliberately calm, her hand resting on Ty's thigh. Every so often, she'd move it higher, just an inch, and watch his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.
"You're evil," he said.
"You love it."
"I really, really do."
He slid his hand under her dress.
Kara's breath caught. He found her through her thong, wet and wanting, and pressed his thumb against the thin fabric. The friction was maddening, too much and not enough all at once.
"Ty—"
"Tell me again," he said. "What you want."
She told him.
"Well, look at that," he said, his voice low. "You really are a good girl."
"Fuck you."
"Later." He pulled his hand away and put it back on the wheel. "Drive first."
Kara wanted to scream. She wanted to jump out of the car and drag him into the back seat. But they were in a residential neighborhood now, only a few blocks from her apartment, and some small, rational part of her brain had enough sense to reach over and adjust the strap of the dress that was now sliding dangerously low.
"Turn left here," she said.
He did.
The Corvette pulled into her parking lot and killed the engine. Ty looked at the building—the beige stucco, the flickering light in the hallway, the smell of someone's cooking drifting from an open window—and smiled.
"This is where you live?"
"Disappointed?"
"It's real." He turned to look at her, and his expression was soft, almost wondering. "I like real."
Kara's throat tightened. She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. She just opened the door and stepped out of the car.
Ty followed her up the stairs.