Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80932 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
So weird, but I feel an instantaneous bonding with Dax that was not there before.
I feel… complete.
He then plucks the engagement ring from the box. I’m totally dazzled by its brilliance as he slides it on, then presses his mouth to my palm before releasing me. I hold my hand out to admire the set. It’s more than I would have ever thought possible.
My gaze drops to the box still clutched in his hand. I take it from him, plucking his wedding ring out. It’s heavy and masculine.
I take his hand, so large and strong in my own, and I put the circle of commitment onto his finger. When I dare to glance at his face, I see his own eyes shining a little with emotion as he stares at the platinum band.
“Dax,” I whisper softly, and his attention comes to me. “I love you so much. These past few years, I’ve never dared to hope for a happily ever after. This is more than I could have ever wished for. I promise I will make you the happiest man in the world.”
“And I promise to give you your best life, Regan,” he says in return. “I’ll never let you down. I’ll always be there for you. You’ll never walk a single step alone.”
And those words we just spoke…
They’re our wedding vows.
Completely spontaneous and utterly perfect.
I lean forward, stretching out on top of my husband—for real now—and I seal our vows with a kiss.
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Read on for an excerpt from
Tacker
Arizona Vengeance
by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 1
Tacker
“Three Three December,” I say into the headset. “I’m having some issues with the primary attitude indicator. I’d like to climb a bit.”
I glance over at MJ. She always used to snicker when I’d say “attitude” indicator. Most people think it should be “altitude” but no… it’s called an attitude indicator. She thought that was hilarious.
How many times has she sat in the copilot seat of my Cessna 335, glancing out at the world with pure joy on her face? She loves to fly as much as I do, but she is always content to let me have the controls. Though she loves being up in the air, she’s never had a desire to pilot.
I’ve never seen her look scared before, and it causes my anxiety to skyrocket. She doesn’t even look back to me, her eyes squinted and peering through the windshield, trying desperately to locate the horizon.
The radio crackles, and then the controller replies, “I’ll be able to issue a higher attitude in two miles. Copy?”
“Roger that,” I reply, resolving to hold steady for that long. I’m at twenty-six-hundred feet, flying through fog as thick as pea soup. My attitude indicator—perhaps the most important instrument on my dash that shows my plane’s orientation relative to the horizon—is fritzing out. Without clear skies, I can’t find the fucking horizon and I’m at risk for spatial disorientation. My request to climb higher is to get us above this mess.
Get us to safety.
I don’t risk taking my hands off the yoke to grab MJ’s for assurance. So instead, I say, “Hey… think you’ll let me take a little peek at the dress?”
It’s the reason for our trip. We’re flying from Dallas to Houston for the last fitting of her wedding dress. Then in two short weeks, we’ll be married.
MJ—short for Melody Jane—and what I’ve called her since I first met her in Dallas, tears her gaze away from the foggy air surrounding us and gives me a quick glance. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”
I don’t dare look at her, only able to see the sharp twist of her head from my peripheral vision. But I grin, loving her sass even in the face of true danger.
“Cessna 121 Papa Papa,” the controller says over the radio. “I’m going to have you make a slow left turn heading southeast, then climb to seven thousand feet. You should have seven miles visibility but some light rain.”
“Roger,” I reply, glancing down at the attitude indicator. The horizon line sits flat, telling me I’m flying straight as an arrow. I hope to fuck it’s working correctly now because I’m going to have to rely on it heavily in just a moment.
This time, I do take a moment to look at MJ, and she swivels slowly to meet my gaze. This left turn is all going to be dependent on that indicator leading me through the fog.
“I love you,” I say solemnly. Not a goodbye. Just a reaffirmation.
“I love you, too,” she replies, and I start to turn the plane.
Terror clutches me so hard I can’t breathe. I come flying out of my nightmare, soaked with sweat. My mouth is wide open, but no scream comes out. I never screamed as we were going down, but MJ had. It had been loud, piercing, and filled with terror. I can hear it vividly ringing in my ears right now, even though my nightmare didn’t progress very far tonight.