Standing on the floating dock, D.J. Hatcher flipped his aviator glasses atop his head. "I remember you—Liza Miller."
The way his steel gray eyes flitted over her loose fitting summer blouse and slacks made her wonder if he could see right through them. But the slacks were lined and the blouse wasn't see through, so of course he couldn't.
All the same, her face grew warm. "You remembered my name." It had been nearly three years since they'd last seen each other, and she was impressed. "What a memory."
But then, it probably wasn't every day that the pilot dealt with a sobbing disaster of a passenger.
D.J. stood by the ladderlike steps to help any of the nine other passengers onto the float to climb aboard the sea plane. Not quite ready to board, Liza shaded her eyes from the late morning Seattle sun and studied him. A good five to six inches taller than she was, D.J. wore faded jeans and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Above the shirt pocket, the blue and white Islan ...
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