“Not this married person getting fired.”
“I own none of this.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
“Professional.”
She laughed.
Some things never changed.
The old private jet eventually reached the end of its economic life.
Technology moved on.
Newer aircraft were more efficient.
Quieter.
Longer range.
The CEO resisted selling it.
The Single Dad found this hilarious.
“You’re sentimental about a machine.”
“It introduced us.”
“It nearly bankrupted my patience.”
“It has history.”
“It has maintenance costs.”
The CEO stared.
“You have become heartless.”
“You own three other jets.”
“That is irrelevant.”
Eventually, they donated the aircraft to an aviation technical college.
Not as a museum piece.
As a training airframe.
The Single Dad insisted.
“If students can take it apart, it stays useful.”
The CEO agreed.
At the donation ceremony, students crowded around the aircraft.
One young woman asked:
“Is this the famous jet you grounded?”
The Single Dad sighed.
The CEO smiled.
“Yes.”
The student looked at him.
“What was wrong with it?”
“Possibly bad actuator.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
“Bad paperwork.”
The student frowned.
“How does paperwork ground an aircraft?”
The Single Dad looked toward the CEO.
She smiled.
He explained traceability.
Airworthiness.
Part identity.
Certification.
The student listened.
Then asked:
“So the part might have been fine?”
“Yes.”
“And you still wouldn’t sign?”
“No.”
“Why?”
The Single Dad replied:
“Because maintenance certification is not a prediction that nothing will go wrong.”
“It is a statement that the things you were responsible for checking have been resolved to a standard you can defend.”
The student nodded.
The CEO watched.
Still attractive.
Gray at his temples now.
Hands still scarred.
Same way of speaking as if the answer mattered more than whether people liked hearing it.
She loved him harder than she expected was possible.
After the ceremony, they stood alone beside the jet.
The CEO touched the fuselage.
“You remember threatening to make me take a commercial flight?”
“Yes.”
“I almost fired you.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“I almost sued the hangar.”
“You’ve mentioned that more.”
She smiled.
“Were you attracted to me that day?”
The Single Dad looked toward her.
“No.”
Her mouth opened.
He smiled.
She slapped his arm.
“Liar.”
“Fine.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When you stopped talking.”
She stared.
“That happened?”
“Briefly.”
She laughed.
Then moved closer.
“You looked at my mouth.”
“Yes.”
“You remember.”
“I remember everything dangerous.”