Chapter Six
“The scores are in: 143.76 for the free skating program, giving them a total of 213.65. Team USA takes the gold in the NHK Trophy!”
“What a phenomenal score, Luke. A great result after narrowly missing first place at Skate America last month.”
“Pippa is proving to be one to watch this season, Jessica, that’s for sure. She and Evan could be unstoppable.”
“Couldn’t agree more. And so, Pippa Cartwright and Evan Thomson for Team USA are heading into the Grand Prix final in France in as little as four weeks. It’s going to be an event you don’t want to miss.”
“What the hell are those?”
Pulling the zipper to my thighs, I smack the sides and lift my head to grin at Wyatt. “Compression boots.”
He frowns, assessing my legs as they stick out straight in front of me right into the aisle, making it damn near impossible for anyone to pass me. These things might apparently work wonders on my recovery, but they suck for moving.
“Okay,” he says, unconvinced, and tucks his hands behind his back, the movement like second nature to him. My eyes sweep the planes of his face as he stands before me, his attention on the RecoverRx boots, giving me the opportunity to really look at him.
His hair is longer than he usually wears it, all brown and kind of messy, flecked with natural blond highlights and strands of gray throughout, making him look younger than his actual age. The scruff on his chin, framing his lips, matches it, too. I want to trail my fingers across it, letting the tips brush against the soft skin of his cheeks, mapping out every inch of his jawline. But as I continue my perusal of his face, my heart stutters when I reach his eyes—eyes that always catch me off guard—staring back at me. They’re blue, brighter, and lighter than any I’ve ever seen before and bear stories and secrets of a past I’d love to uncover, pick apart, learn every idiosyncrasy that is Wyatt Grant.
I blush, wrenching my gaze off him. I’ve got a problem. I have a big, dumb, childish crush on the man standing in front of me. A man who, from the second I saw him when I stepped onto the plane on that very first day he was assigned to fly me, makes my body react in ways I didn’t even know it could. My previous pilot has been with our family since I was a little girl, all gray and surly, like a grumpy Santa Claus. And when he said he needed extra help, no longer able to keep up with my schedule on top of my fathers, I’d expected someone similar would take his place. Not this panty-melting, heart-stopping Adonis of a man.
Glancing up, I find Wyatt’s focus is back on the boots, and my inspection involuntarily resumes. Apparently, the briefest permission I’ve given myself is taking full advantage, roaming across his uniform-clad body. For a plain white starched shirt, he really fills it out. His biceps stretch the material wrapped around them but not in an ‘ I go to the gym a million times a week’ sort of way, but rather an ‘ I’d throw you over my shoulder and carry you to bed’ one. I feel my cheeks burn hotter as we lock eyes again, almost shocked that his are already back on me, too.
Was he staring at me the way I was him? Does he know that I want to jump his bones and let him do things to me I can only dream of?
This isn’t the first time I’ve caught him looking at me for longer than what’s deemed polite by professional standards. Or maybe I just imagine it, but either way, I can’t move, snared in the trap his ice-blue eyes have me frozen in. Minutes go by—or it could be seconds—and eventually, he breaks our game of eye-contact chicken, his head gesturing to the manual sitting on the table in front of me.
Oh.
“They’re supposed to help delayed muscle soreness,” I say, my voice uncharacteristically uneven as I grab the pamphlet and hold it out. He takes it from me and starts to riffle through the pages. “Helps with swelling and stiffness and things like that.”
He eyes me from over the paper. “Couldn’t you just get a sports massage or something?”
I wriggle in my seat. The mental images of him massaging me create an unsteady rhythm in my heart that clearly causes some sort of malfunction in my brain because I open my mouth and say, “Why? Are you offering?”
Wyatt’s fingers stop flipping and my pulse rockets. I am waiting for his inevitable rebuke for me to strike back with something flirty. Because taunting Wyatt Grant might just be my favorite hobby. I love it. The startled expressions he thinks he can hide, the way I know he wants to bite back. It excites me, and I’ve got each one cataloged and earmarked for the stoic, sexy pilot.
There is no doubt that Wyatt is handsome, attractive, a goddamn gift to women who grace his path, and if given half the chance, I would be all over that, consequences be damned.
Only he’s professional to a fault. Never taking my bait, never wanting to make my little game more interesting. I can’t help it. There’s just something that makes my nerves pulse when I’m around him, makes me want to push his buttons the same way he unknowingly does mine.
But he’s my father’s employee and, therefore, by default, my employee, too. He’s also older than me, not that it matters, because with age comes experience. A fact that seems to develop a sudden surge of intense jealousy forming inside my stomach at the thought of him being with other women. The idea of him touching them, kissing them…fucking them. I have no right to feel anything, and I hate that I do.
Wyatt’s shoulders roll back like he’s heard my entire line of thought, and he closes the thin booklet, setting it on the table. Leaning forward, he places a hand there, his fingers coiling around the edge as he leans down, his body practically towering over mine as his mouth nears my ear.
My heart cannot cope with the lurching and leaping this man causes as he murmurs, his voice low with a warning that makes me shiver, “You couldn’t handle my hands on you.”
A small gasp escapes my lips, and I blink, unable to take my eyes off the collar of his shirt. My neck heats as the picture from before crashes into my head—strong hands on my arms, my legs, my…everywhere. He moves quickly, his entire demeanor looking so unaffected as he stands tall that I doubt I heard him correctly.
“If you’re ready to go home, we’ll be taking off—”
“No,” I breathe, the whiplash of arousal and confusion clouding my brain. He cocks his head, and I swear the corner of his lip twitches. “No, not yet. I’m waiting on…”
“Where is my number one girl?” Evan calls from the front of the plane, his voice startling me that I jump like I’ve been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Wyatt’s shoulders tense, his jaw tight as his expression hardens.
It cannot only be me who can feel the charged air between us .
“Fuck me, this plane is nice.” Evan whistles as he steps farther into the cabin, completely unaware of what he’s walked in on. Not that I know myself. He steps over my outstretched legs and drops his equipment bag on the floor behind us.
“Sorry I’m late, babe,” he says, bending down to kiss my cheek before facing my pilot—my father’s pilot—and sticking out his hand. “Hey, man, I’m Evan, Pippa’s partner.”
“Partner,” he mutters, like he’s tasting the word on his tongue and doesn’t like the flavor. He lets go of Evan’s hand and turns to me, his voice void of emotion. “If you’re ready, Miss Cartwright.”
I nod dumbly, my words frozen somewhere inside my throat. He moves quickly to the cockpit and shuts the door without another glance back. Evan plops down into the chair across the small aisle and gasps, his hand landing on my knee.
“Is this the RecoverRx Pro?” Evan asks, snapping me out of my stupor. I focus on him with a grin, although the movement is a little sluggish. His mouth drops open, and he darts forward, grabbing the manual. “But how? It’s not even out yet.”
I shrug, brushing my long hair off one shoulder, and tease, “Perks of being a billionaire's daughter and a professional athlete.”
“That is so unfair.” Slumping in his seat, he crosses his arms over his chest. “ I’m a professional athlete and never got one.”
“Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll let you have a shot.” Reaching into the box next to me, I lift out the pump and turn it on, programming in the settings for the thirty-minute recovery mode. The boots start to rumble, the sound similar to that of a blood pressure machine, and at the same time, the plane engines roar. They tighten around my legs, the compression nice against my aching muscles, and I sit back with a sigh.
Evan’s quiet as we take off, but I can feel his stare on the side of my head until we level and start the cruise to Westchester.
“What?” I finally ask, my head rolling to the side to face him.
“I thought we were friends.”
“I already said you could have a turn with the boots, Evan. Chill.”
“No,” he says, and my eyebrows knit together. Evan thrusts his finger toward the cockpit door. “Is there a reason you’ve been hiding that hunk of man meat all to yourself?”
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“Mr. Sexy Pilot Man?” Evan fans his face, and I bristle at the nickname I wish I’d come up with for him. “He is something else, Pippa. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
I have from the very second he introduced himself, and every damn day I need to see his beautiful face.
“If I were you, I’d be all over that.” He continues, unaware that my entire body is flushing with the same jealousy I had before. Only now, it’s because I don’t like the way my friend slash partner is ogling my pilot. Leaning closer, he whispers conspiratorially. “Any chance he’s into guys?”
Sliding my hands under my legs, I dig my nails painfully into the leather as my throat constricts. I swallow, my mouth feeling like cotton as I say, “Not that I’m aware.”
Evan groans and sags into his chair. “Bummer.” Then he knocks my arm playfully with his fist. “But you should totally go for it.”
“He’s employed by my dad,” I grind out through gritted teeth.
“So? What daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“He’s nearly forty.”
“ Ooh, age gap. I like it.”
I glare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And so are you if you’re not going to do a thing about…” He holds up his hands, shaking his head as he corrects, “Sorry, I mean to that man.”
“He doesn’t think of me that way.” Even though sometimes I think there’s a small chance he might. Not that I’m going to tell Evan. Staring at the closed door in front of me, I sigh. “Besides, I can’t. We’ve got the Grand Prix final coming up, the U.S. Championships, and then Worlds.” A timer goes off, signaling the end of the recovery program. Unzipping the boots, I wriggle my legs. “I don’t have the time.”
Evan huffs. “All work and no play makes Pippa a dull girl.” I stare at him unimpressed as he leans in closer; he might as well be sitting on my lap. “And babe, you’re wrong. That man would definitely play with you.”
“What?” I narrow my eyes to hide my curiosity.
His grin is wicked as he unbuckles his belt and starts to help me put the boots back in their box. “When I came on board, the tension in here was so thick I could have suffocated.”
I snort. “Whatever.”
“It’s true. You didn’t see the glare he gave me when I introduced myself as your”—he air quotes—“partner.”
“You don’t think—” My hands falter, the boot springing back out of the box.
Evan nods. “If the way he gripped my hand says anything, I think Mr. Sexy Pilot Man thinks we’re together.”
My head whips to the side, mouth gaping. “Really?”
“Mmhmm.”
Closing the lid, I risk a glance at the cockpit again, thankful for the separation between us as I try to replay his interaction with Evan. Is he right? Did Wyatt misinterpret what Evan meant by calling himself my partner?
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” I say, kicking the box under the table and shifting in my seat. “It’s not like anything is going to happen.”
Evan rummages around in his backpack and digs out his tablet and notebook. Pushing them onto my table, he moves to sit in front of me.
“If you say so,” he singsongs, pulling up footage from our competition last week. He flicks to a blank page and clicks his pen. “Right, we’ve got just under three hours until we land, and I need to head to my sister’s kid’s first birthday, which, by the way, thanks for letting me hitch a ride back home.”
I stare at him, deadpan. “Like you gave me a choice.”
He beams. “Shall we start making notes like Coach asked?”
I groan and dig out my own notepad. As I’m about to click play on his tablet, Evan covers my hands with his.
“Just so you know,” he says, eyes twinkling. “I think if you were to pursue that, Mr. Sexy Pilot Man wouldn’t say no.”