Chapter Thirteen
My fingers hesitate on the last few buttons of my shirt, the ink on my chest taunting me in the mirror as I see it in a new light.
In only a couple of days, things have changed. Granted, I only saw her for a few hours when she arrived at the plane, ready to finish the journey to Colorado, but instead of acting like a grown man, I hid in the cockpit as soon as I knew she was on board.
Door closed, locked from the inside, out of reach.
I never fly with the door closed—one of the perks of flying private jets—apart from when her partner turned up for the flight. A partner I had no right to feel jealous of when now jealousy is what I wish I still felt. The relief that washed over me when Phillipa said she and Evan were strictly business was unexpected and unwarranted.
It shouldn’t matter to me if she has a boyfriend. She and I will never happen.
Besides, what would I have said to her that morning anyway? Sorry for being evasive, but I didn’t trust myself after I left the pool, so I sat in a pair of sweats—thankful that the spa staff were so accommodating and had a spare uniform after telling me she’d taken my discarded clothes for me—in the hotel bar, nursing a single glass of whiskey until I knew she’d gone to bed. Or tell her that when I did return to the lodge, I stood like a man possessed watching her sleep? Or that after I found the brand-new shirt and boxer briefs she’d bought me made me feel like a dickhead?
Phillipa doesn’t make sense to me anymore. When I first met her, I assumed she was a typical rich girl with opportunities most could only imagine. A pretty face with little substance, only interested in herself. Not just because her father is the leading oil salesman in the U.S. but also because she’s an athlete on Team fucking USA.
Yet the way she shut down, terrified after the flight, shaking and close to tears, was not how I expected her to react. Adrenaline does funny things to the body, fight-or-flight and all that. Surely, as someone used to performing in front of judges, spectators, and TV cameras, her fighting mentality would have dominated. But there was a woman, a shell of the girl I am used to flying, sitting before me, anxiously clutching at her seat.
Then the total one-eighty when we reached the hotel. The way she took control of booking the lodge, ordering the massages, and defying me when I explicitly told her to sleep upstairs, where it was safe. It shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was.
And then there’s the flirting. I’m used to it, have been for a while. She uses suggestive comments and cheeky innuendos like some people hide behind sarcasm and wit. But she was toeing a fine line in the pool. The two of us alone. Her proximity. The way she looked under the moonlight…wet…seductive…needy. It pushed me toward my breaking point, leaving me with no option but to flip it around. Try to prove that she’s all bark with no bite.
But what if it backfired? What if I got it wrong? What if I’d misread her reactions, and where I thought she was freaked out, she wasn’t? Everything I’ve thought I knew about her until now has been tossed out of the window. The rulebook has been rewritten, and I don’t have the updates.
I’ve lasted this long, ignored and pushed forward, knowing the misplaced lust would eventually fade, yet it hasn’t. It’s still potent and dangerous, and I’m a fool to think it would have subsided. That’s why something has to change, at least until I can get a grip.
Thirty-nine, man. You’re thirty-nine.
After sliding my epaulets onto my shirt, I reach for my tie, hooking it onto the collar. The material is thicker than the ones usually provided as part of my uniform, and the cotton is a lot softer, too. My fingers trail along the cuffs as I remember the price tag affixed to the gift box it was packaged in. Yet another whiplash moment in the moments surrounding Phillipa Cartwright. Her kindness was not something I expected from her. Yes, she’d bought the swimming trunks—a gag gift, I’d thought at the time—but a fresh shirt and clean underwear? She didn’t need to do that. She could have bought enough for herself, considering all she travels with is her equipment bag. Yet she didn’t.
I stare at myself in the mirror, seeing a different man. A man I don’t recognize. A man who is now using his co-pilot as a buffer between him and a girl nearly half his age. A man who is torn between doing what is right by keeping his distance and giving in to that sweet temptation. A man who now has to fly the guy who signs his paychecks, knowing what his daughter’s body feels like under his hands but wishing he knew more.
“Man, I could do this flight all the time,” Liam sighs, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Westchester to Colorado…it was amazing.”
Yeah, until you nearly get caught up in a squall line.
Grabbing my pre-flight checklist, I unbuckle my seatbelt and get to my feet. “I’m going to do the walk around. You okay to take over in here?”
Liam’s head bounces like an excitable puppy as I step through the cockpit door and into the cabin. Mr. Cartwright waves his hand as I unlock the hatch and push the button controlling the airstairs. They fold out with a soft hiss, bumping gently against the tarmac. Jogging down, the silver paint of the Gulfstream glistens, the plane a beauty in her own right, but nothing like the one I fly alone.
I circle her, my eyes raking over her body, observing and noting anything abnormal on my checklist. I’m beneath the wing, my fingers grazing underneath it when I hear the voice belonging to the girl I’ve decided to avoid.
“Wyatt,” Phillipa says, stopping short as she regards me. The misplaced lust that’s evolved from a spark to a flame flares to life, a damn side effect from our time in the lodge.
“Miss Cartwright,” I reply. My arm is raised, my hand still touching the underside of the wing, the edge of my sleeve exposing my tattoos. Her eyes latch onto it, before flickering over the rest of my shirt, like instead of seeing the nondescript white material, the rest of the ink on my skin has somehow managed to seep through.
She swallows, dragging a hand through her long hair, determination shining in her gray eyes. “That shirt looks good on you,” she says, her tone suggestive.
I want to kick myself for choosing this one this morning. Of course, she’d know it was the one she bought me; the missing Cartwright Oil embroidered insignia is a huge tell.
Lowering my hand, I shove both inside my pants pockets. Clearing my throat, any semblance of a reply proves difficult, but then Liam’s voice calls from inside the plane, saving me from interacting.
“Yo, Wyatt? What do we do if—” He pokes his head out of the door. His eyes widen, and he snaps to attention like a soldier in the army, tucking his hands behind his back. “Miss Cartwright, nice to see you.”
She glances at me, her eyes cold, before turning to Liam, her practiced smile in place. “Mr. Wood, what a surprise.”
He beams. Liam’s a good guy, if not a little green around the edges, only a couple of years fresh out of aviation school. He’s me, only fifteen years ago—all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed every time he so much as stands near a jet.
“How is training going?” he asks, his voice full of genuine interest.
“Really good,” she says, but the dark circles under her eyes suggest otherwise. “Gotta love those long hours leading up to a competition.”
“What one is it next?”
The hairs on my neck rise as I listen to their conversation, feeling like an interloper. Liam… my co-pilot , knows about the competitions she competes in?
“The Grand Prix Final.”
“Oh, yeah, in France, right?” Liam questions.
Phillipa nods, her smile becoming more real the more they talk. “How did you know?”
Liam’s cheeks pinken. “My sister loves figure skating.”
“Oh really? That’s cool.”
“Hey, Wyatt!” My stomach twists as I hear Colin’s voice behind me, interrupting them. A weird protectiveness coils itself around the knot, wanting to get Phillipa away from him.
“Miss Cartwright, if you’re ready to get on the plane. Your father’s waiting for you,” I say, my tone commanding as I try to usher her away from the man advancing on us.
“My dad?” she asks. Pausing on the steps, she looks back over her shoulder.
“Yes.” I follow behind her, almost pushing her upward, and hand Liam the nearly completed checklist, thumbing toward the dispatcher. “Deal with him. I’ll finish in here.”
“Yes, Captain,” he replies, then takes off down the stairs as Colin reaches the bottom.
I turn the corner and find Mr. Cartwright on his feet, engulfing his daughter in a hug and trapping her arms by her sides.
“Pippa,” he gushes, squeezing her to his chest. She awkwardly lifts a hand and pats his arm until he lets her go but keeps a grip on her bicep.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”
“Nancy and I decided to fly out and bring you home.” He gestures to his wife and Phillipa’s stepmom, smiling at them from her seat.
Phillipa shrugs out of his hold. “Okay. But why?”
“I read the report, honey.” His eyes soften sympathetically as he glances at me and then back to his daughter.
“What report?” she asks, confused.
“Wyatt’s report following the bad weather last Sunday.”
She whirls around, her gaze accusing as she locks eyes with me. “You mentioned me in your report?”
I grimace, a pang of guilt surfacing like I somehow betrayed her confidence by relaying her vulnerability during the flight. But before I can explain further, Mr. Cartwright answers, oblivious to the tension seeping from Phillipa.
“Of course he did. He needs to inform me of everything that happens in a flight, and my baby girl being almost catatonic is definitely something I should be told about.”
“ Dad.” Her jaw clenches as her cheeks flare bright red. “I was fine . ”
“Pippa, don’t lie to me. It’s okay if you were afraid.” Stepping toward her, he brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. She bristles, clearly hating the attention, but he continues. “You take after your mother with more than just her love of skating. She hated flying, too…” he pauses, chuckling as he glances back at Nancy. “Honestly, the slightest bit of movement and she’d be clutching onto my arm like the whole thing was going down.”
“I don’t hate flying,” she says emphatically.
Nancy smiles warmly, shaking her head at her husband. “Charlie, I think you’re embarrassing the poor girl.”
“And I was not scared,” she repeats. A vein in Phillipa’s forehead pulses as she glares at her father, the color on her face traveling down to her neck. “It had been a long week at the rink. I was tired from another weekend of training. Anyone would have acted the same way.”
“I know, I know. You’re right, but I wanted to come all the same and fly home with you myself,” her father says, draping an arm around her, pulling her into the side of his body, and kissing the top of her head. “Besides, I agree with Wyatt’s assessment outlined in his report and until we get the Phenom reviewed by an engineer, you’ll use this plane.”
She screws up her face. “An engineer? Why? Nothing major happened. It was a bit of weather.”
“Be that as it may, I still agree with him.” Phillipa’s gray eyes narrow on mine like she can see straight through my lie. The plane’s fine. There’s no reason it would be unsafe.
It’s more my thoughts when we’re alone that are the issue.
“So, Liam will be flying me with Wyatt, too?” she asks, her tone clipped. “And what if you need to go somewhere? Wasn’t this the whole point of having two aircrafts?”
“It was, but Alistair is in desperate need of a vacation, so while he’s off, Liam will be paired up with Wyatt to fly you, and if I need the plane…” He shrugs, itching his chin in thought. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. But until the Phenom gets a clean bill of health, I want my little girl to feel safe when she’s in the air.”
“But I do feel safe already,” she says indignantly.
Something about the way she says that makes my skin prickle. The buttoned collar around my neck feels too tight, the air in the cabin thinning, even with us still on the ground.
Mr. Cartwright waves her off, walking toward the table where several documents are scattered. “But since we’re talking about it, I think I might buy a new plane to replace the Phenom.”
My ears perk up, and the four greatest words in the English language make my pulse spike: Buy a new plane . My mind whirls with ideas. The Phenom is, and always will be, my baby, a sort of sentimentality I get with the first plane I fly for a new boss, but the booklets Mr. Cartwright is rummaging through are making my blood pump. Hard.
I try not to watch as Phillipa reaches up to put her bag in the overhead lockers, keeping my gaze fixated on the pamphlets, knowing all too well how the soft, silken skin that undoubtedly peeks out from under the hem of her sweater feels under my hands.
“So, let me ask you, Wyatt…” Mr. Cartwright brandishes a glossy booklet in front of him. Gesturing around, he asks, “What do you think of the Gulfstream?”
“Flies like a dream, sir,” I answer without a second thought.
“I was thinking of replacing the Phenom with one of their single-crewed planes.” He laughs, clutching his belly. “Call me unconventional, but I like being able to choose if I want to be flown by one or two of my pilots on my planes.”
“Unconventional isn’t what I would call you, Charlie,” Nancy laughs. “Greedy, maybe. I still don’t understand why you want two jets to begin with.”
“Because I need two,” he replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“ Need and want are two different things, honey,” she states, drumming her fingers on the table.
Mr. Cartwright’s quiet for a beat, frowning in concentration. He clicks his fingers, and a broad grin appears on his face.
“Pippa needs one so she can be flown back and forth for training, and then I need one for when my presence is required at any of my offices across the country at a moment’s notice.”
“You have more money than sense.” Nancy rolls her eyes playfully, lifting her book off her lap and opening it to the page with a bookmark slotted inside. “But boys and their toys,” she mutters as she starts to read.
“Okay, so what is the point of having the Phenom checked when you’re going to get rid of it?” Phillipa asks.
“Resale, Pippa. Everything is about resale,” he says simply.
“Well, what about this one?” Pippa asks. Leaning across the aisle, she grabs a brochure and flicks to a page with a two-page spread of a sleek black jet. “It allows for single and multi-crew like you want. So put in an order, and we can stop disrupting everyone's time just to fly me to training.”
I glance at Mr. Cartwright and Nancy, both seemingly unaware of Phillipa’s words. They might not hear it, but I can. The quicker her father buys his new plane, the quicker she doesn’t need to be flown in a craft that requires two pilots. But unlike her, a second pilot is what I need. Because a new plane means she doesn’t need to behave. A new plane means we’re alone.
I tilt my head, forcing myself to skim over the specifications.
“That one is nice,” I comment, and Phillipa smiles smugly, slotting the brochure into her father’s outstretched hand. “But, if I’m being honest, sir, it looks like a lot of what you already have on the Phenom is an additional extra on that one. If you want to upgrade to get better specs, that might not be the one to go for.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, flipping the booklet back to the cover and setting it on the table.
“But that one can fly more nautical miles than the Phenom and the Gulfstream,” she argues.
I'd be standing with my jaw open if I wasn’t so good at keeping my emotions hidden. There is no way she’s aware of the differences between two of the manufacturers, let alone the estimated distances they can fly.
“And it’s more environmentally friendly.” She continues to list all the ways the plane she suggested is better than the ones her father owns now, and I find myself utterly stuck. Vulnerable. Flirtatious. Kind. Embarrassed. Smart. Each new way to describe Phillipa smacking into me like clear air turbulence, knocking me off kilter.
“That may be, but if Wyatt doesn’t think it’s as good…”
“You know about planes?” I ask, thinking back to when she knew the Phenom could be flown by a single pilot, rudely interrupting my boss.
Phillipa shrugs. “Dads had these brochures for a while and takes them everywhere with him,” she says, as if that explains anything. “Sometimes I get bored.”
Mr. Cartwright looks lovingly at his daughter. “She’s like a magpie, this one. Sees something shiny and wants it. Just like her dad.”
“Well, Miss Cartwright is correct, sir.” Phillipa turns to face me, her arms folding over her chest, her eyebrows raised as she waits for what I’m going to say. “That manufacturer is in the top ten jets in the world, but then again, if it were up to me, the Bombardier is the one to beat.”
Something flickers in her gaze as she stares at me, but I’m distracted as her dad almost launches across the table, searching through the flyers. “Ah, yes. The Bombardier. Now, where is it?” Slapping a hand on top of the booklet, he snatches it triumphantly into the air. “This baby has just been released, and it has a private cabin and something called Dynamic Daylight Simulation…whatever that means.”
I smile and take the glossy pages from him. “Why don’t I look over these and get back to you with my opinions? I wouldn’t want you to rush into buying something that isn’t up to your standard.”
“Rush into something,” Phillipa snorts under her breath.
My eyes ache with the need to look at her, to see her expression. Thankfully, Liam appears back inside, a broad smile on his face. “We’re ready to head back whenever you are.”