Chapter Three
“That’s you all fueled up, Wyatt,” Colin says, holding out his clipboard with a receipt attached. “You know what to do.”
Accepting the dispatcher’s pen, I read over the printed numbers and scribble my initials next to them before handing it back. The routine is the same each time I land in Colorado, ready to fly Miss Cartwright home. “Thanks.”
“What’s it like flying this baby?” he asks, gazing longingly at the plane behind me. “Bet it feels like you’re the king of the world, right?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I guess.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be flown in a private jet, sipping champagne, eating caviar.” He pauses, his wistful look turning into contemplation. “Although I don't think I like caviar.”
I shift my feet, pulling back my cuff to check the time, wishing Miss Cartwright would hurry up. Colin notices and checks his watch too, with a disapproving click of his tongue.
“This bit must be boring, though, huh? All the waiting around for the boss to show up. Don’t they know we’re busy men?”
Frowning, I say, “You don’t need to be here, Colin. You have all the paperwork signed and ready to go.”
He makes a humming sound before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I’d rather wait for your passenger to arrive.” Holding his hand up for shade, he squints at the terminal, the afternoon sun a blinding orange as it slowly sets in the distance. “Oh, speak of the devil.”
I follow his eyeline, finding Phillipa walking across the asphalt of the small section used for private jets. Long brown hair flows behind her, gently moving in the breeze. Large sunglasses hide the gray irises I’ve been seeing in my sleep for nearly four months. They don’t stop her face from scrunching up at the glare that shines off the Phenom 300, fueled and ready behind me.
Colin releases a low whistle. “Damn, she is one fine piece of ass, isn’t she?” My head snaps toward him, a knot forming in my stomach as he continues to speak. “It’s all that skating, isn’t it? Makes her nice and tight.” He lewdly licks his lips and taps the clipboard to my stomach. “Anyway, see you next time, Wyatt. Safe flight.”
I grunt out a response, my eyes burning a hole in the back of his head as he passes Phillipa, twisting last second and grinning salaciously before giving me a thumbs up, coupled with a nod that is far too crass for a man who’s meant to be working.
“Wyatt, is something wrong?”
Dragging my gaze away from Colin’s retreating back, I notice Phillipa staring at my hands. I look down at my fingers, at the white-knuckled fists they’re in, and slowly unclench them as they begin to tingle. “No, nothing’s wrong, Miss Cartwright.”
“You sure? Everything’s okay with the plane?” Her shoulders tense, even under the weight of the two equipment bags slung over them.
“Of course,” I confirm, and she visibly relaxes. “No issues.”
“But you’re scowling.” She tilts her head, her lips twitching when I force my face to relax.
“Apologies.”
Her smile breaks free, and she shifts one of her bag straps up her arm. “There. That’s better. Keep frowning like that, and you’ll get more wrinkles.” I want to furrow my eyebrows again, unamused, but think better of it as she removes her sunglasses, biting her lower lip. “On second thought, I think those lines look sexy on older men.”
I stare blankly at her, and she grins, seemingly amused that I always manage to keep my outward appearance impassive. Because this is our thing. A song I didn’t know the tune to, a dance I didn’t know we’d started. Only over the last four months has it progressed when it’s just us two. The pilot and the passenger. Taunting and teasing. Toeing the line but never crossing it.
Little does she know that internally, words that shouldn’t excite me create havoc inside my head. It’s superficial, surface-level bullshit that will never go past my physical attraction to her.
It can’t. I won’t let it.
She flicks her hair and blasély steps past me toward the aircraft steps. My fingers touch my forehead; the soft lines that fill my skin are something I’ve never thought of until now. I repeat the action a couple more times, the ripples and dips odd to touch, before quickly smoothing them away, realizing I probably look ridiculous.
I stride forward, reaching the bottom stair before Phillipa, and hold out my hand. “Here, let me help you with your bags.”
“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” she says, brushing me off as she starts to climb. Something sweet fills the air, the smell of her shampoo, I assume, as the wind picks up the long strands, sending them flying around her shoulders. I step back quickly, taking a deep breath and replacing it with the distinct scent of aviation fuel.
“No co-pilot today?” Her voice gets quieter as she disappears into the plane.
“Not today, Miss Cartwright,” I call, following her up the stairs, ducking when I reach the doorway. “The Phenom can be operated as a single-pilot plane, so Liam isn’t needed when using this craft.”
“I know, I’m just teasing,” she says lightly.
Surprise almost has me knocking my head against the metal frame. “You knew this plane could be operated by a single crew?”
“I know a lot of things.” She winks. I don’t engage, even though I want to expand on this, but before I can even say anything, she continues. “I also know that while this plane has the capacity to be flown with two pilots, you choose not to. Does someone not know how to share?” Running her hand along the smooth leather of the seats, her dainty fingers follow every line and crease as she walks farther into the cabin toward her chair. “Who knew you’d be so possessive over something you think is yours.” She looks back with a smirk, eyes dancing, and I avert my gaze.
Letting her luggage fall to the floor, she reaches up and opens the overhead locker before grabbing one of the oversized equipment bags and trying to stuff it inside. She lets out a grunt as she struggles, shifting onto her tiptoes and extending her arms straight above her. Creamy-tanned skin catches my attention, the bottom of her shirt riding up to expose her lower back. I know I’m staring, but the definition of her muscles and the smoothness of her skin that peeks out from above the waistband of her leggings are captivating.
Guilt seeps into my subconscious as she lowers herself back down, fixing her clothing with a huff, and I realize I’ve done nothing to help her. The bag hangs precariously out of the small space, yet I still don’t move. All I can do is shove my hands into my pockets and pinch the skin on my thigh through the thin material. The short bite of pain is enough to get my head in gear and I clench my jaw, not that she’s paying attention to me, her focus too busy on another fruitless attempt to get her bag to fit before she gives up.
“Question,” she says, tugging it back out and blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. I fight the urge to smile. Not many people would announce they have a question before they ask it. “If Liam did take this plane out by himself, what would you do?”
“Duct-tape him to the wing and hope it stays,” I deadpan. Then I walk forward and take the heaviest bag from her grasp, slotting it easily inside the compartment before closing the door.
Her eyes widen, mouth falls open, and then she barks a laugh. “You have a dark sense of humor. I like that.”
Turning away from her, I make my way to the cockpit. She was right to assume I don’t like to share because if Liam, my new co-pilot, ever did touch my baby—it would be his first and last time. I might not be into cars that it’s borderline creepy like my little brother, Teddy, or obsessed with capturing people’s beauty with a camera like Bowie, but this amazing piece of engineering right here is mine. And there is nothing like the feeling I get when I step inside this jet. From the rich mahogany wood finishes, complementing the light gray upholstery, to the speckled floor gleaming in the LED lights lining the top of the cabin—the craftsmanship is second to none.
Okay, maybe I’m more like Teddy than I thought.
Pressing a button that operates the door and the stairs, they start to lift, the sound almost futuristic until it bumps softly into place. Phillipa peers at me from over her shoulder and then heaves her other bags onto the seat in front of her. Only the handle catches the armrest, tugging it until the zipper bursts and a single skate falls out.
“Shit,” she mutters, leaning down to get it, but I’m faster.
Darting forward, I lift the bright pink boot with a light pink guard along the blade, and stand, turning it over in my hand and running my finger along a crown decal with sparkly stars surrounding it. The skate is covered with different styles and designs of tiaras—some gold, others silver, but nearly all have a shade of pink.
“I can only imagine what these look like on.” I freeze, suddenly very aware of how that sounds. Phillipa edges forward, her expression filled with something I don’t like and like far too much, all at the same time.
“Oh really?” She plucks the skate out of my hands, the flimsy piece of plastic falling off the blade and landing on the floor. “I didn’t realize you wanted to watch me skate, Wyatt. All you had to do was ask, and I’d happily give you a private show. Although you might be disappointed when I don’t wear my childhood skates.” She assesses the boot. “But if it’s the tiara’s you’re into, maybe I could find them in an adult size.”
The way she’s looking at me is dangerous. Our vast height difference forces her head back and her eyes gleam with intrigue, cunning, something unmistakable but so incredibly forbidden, it makes me want to throw the rule book I’ve followed for years out of the window.
I pride myself on professionalism. I was at the top of my class at Skyward Aviation. I worked for the worst boss alive for over a decade without a single complaint before being headhunted by Mr. Cartwright. I never put one foot out of line. Passed what was essentially a two-month probation period, flying the boss whenever and wherever he wanted before transitioning to the role I was hired to do.
Take over from the previous pilot, who was retiring from Phillipa’s grueling schedule.
Only I didn’t expect who walked on board my plane four months ago—the attractive, sassy, young daughter of my boss—a temptation I never anticipated.
I try to create as much distance between us as the small cabin of the plane will allow and drop down again to pick up the guard. Holding it out for her, I square my shoulders and school my face. “Sorry, Miss Cartwright, I did not mean for that to sound the way it did.”
Once she's taken it from me, I clasp my hands behind my back, but there’s that glint in her eyes again—the same one that I swear I’m seeing more frequently. An awareness like she knows she’s playing with fire. And enjoys it.
The amusement travels to her lips as a smile slowly takes over her face.
“No harm done.” She runs a finger over the guard. “But just so you know, the offer still stands.”
An offer I’d be stupid to cash in.
Without another word, she tosses her hair and spins back to the bag, returning the skate before zipping it up.
I tug on the ends of my sleeves, straightening my shirt and adjusting the cufflinks her father gave me on my first day. The polished silver is a cold reminder of my position, the responsibility and trust given by Mr. Cartwright to fly his daughter. A silent warning that if I don’t want to end up on my ass working for someone like my old boss again, I need to be more careful.
“If you’re ready to take your seat, Miss Cartwright.”
Dropping into the nearest chair, she crosses one long, slender leg over the other, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
“Wyatt, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Pippa?” she asks, the undertone of her question flirtatious. And even though I’ve already warned myself, it doesn’t stop my blood from heating. Here she is, nibbling on her bottom lip in a way I usually find obnoxious, sinking her teeth into the plump softness, rolling it slowly out of their grasp. It’s somehow different with her.
If we weren’t who we were, I would be ecstatic with how she acts around me. Any man my age would be flattered if a hot twenty-something flirted with them, especially a girl like Phillipa.
I can’t be like any other man.
Just as I think that, she threads a hand into her hair, brushing it back from her face, and I can’t help but picture my own fingers entwined in those locks. She smirks, almost like she can see into my mind, and I’m snapped out of the fantasy, the thought disappearing as quickly as it came. I’m nearly twenty years older than her; I shouldn’t be having these inconvenient, unprofessional, lusting thoughts about her.
Maybe a sex hiatus is a bad idea. Maybe I need to go out and get laid as many times as I can to stop thinking these things about her.
It didn’t help in the past. What makes you think it would help now?
Either way, I need to retreat to the safety of the flight deck and do the job I’m here to do.
Unclasping my hands from behind my back, I clear my throat. “If you’re ready, we’ll be airborne in fifteen minutes, Miss Cartwright. The weather looks good, so flight time should be roughly three hours with a tailwind, landing in Westchester at seven-thirty this evening.”
Her lips purse together as something about her changes. A dark cloud that’s suddenly rolled in, threatening a storm. Maybe she doesn’t like my sudden dismissal, or perhaps she doesn’t like that I won’t give her the attention I’m sure she’s used to getting because of the weight behind her name or because she’s a professional athlete.
She twists in her chair to look out the window, her attention fixed outside, so I glance through the one behind her, watching as a commercial plane is pushed back by a little tractor.
“Will my dad be at the airstrip when we land?”
“No.” I shake my head, watching her reflection through the glass.
“Great,” she whispers to herself, running her fingers along the edge of the windowpane. “Just when I could really do with talking to him...” she trails off, shifting again before turning to look at me. “Are you sure he won’t be there?”
“Unless he got someone else to fly him home, your father is in St Barth's for the weekend.”
“Like he’d get anyone else but you if you weren’t flying me around,” she mutters. “Why St. Barths?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did he go to St. Barths?” she repeats. “Was it for business or pleasure?”
“Originally business, but your father extended the trip to last the weekend.”
“Of course he did,” she huffs. “Is Nancy there too?”
“She is,” I say, and her shoulders droop ever-so-slightly. Not enough that people would notice, but I do. She’s quiet, barely acknowledging my response, returning her focus to the window again, her fingers toying with the blind until she pulls it down. “Miss Cartwright…?”
“Aren’t you meant to be flying me home, Wyatt?” The chill in her voice makes the air around us plummet. All hints of the playfulness from before are long gone.
Frowning, I watch her, the way she’s closing herself off, and take a step toward her.
“Pip—” I cut myself off with a sigh. Was I really going to ask her if there was anything I could do? I’m her pilot, for fuck’s sake. Not her friend. Not someone she confides in, not someone she turns to for help. “Can you please open your blinds? Window shades have to be up for take-off and landing.”
Immediately, she shoves the blind forcefully upward, and I cringe. While technically, this plane belongs to her—to her family—I still don’t want it to be damaged.
“Better?” she sneers, tapping her foot on the floor. She breathes heavily as she stares at me, her jaw clenching, her throat bobbing as she fights to keep her expression pinched. Pointedly glancing behind me, she waves her hand dismissively. “Well?”
“Of course, Miss Cartwright.”
With a nod, I walk into the cockpit, briefly glancing back at Phillipa, the knot in the pit of my stomach reappearing. Biting the corner of her lip, she rubs her temple before lifting her legs and hugging her arms around them. She’s facing away from me, resting a cheek on her knees, but I don’t need to see her to recognize the sadness that, for whatever reason, has taken over. An ache she hides so well behind her mask of flirtation and wit.
I should know.
My own mask hides the same thing.