Chapter Nineteen
Orléans is lit up for Christmas, and I don’t enjoy a single second because I’m locked in my hotel room, streaming Pippa’s competition. She and Evan are amazing, better than everyone else by far. I can’t tear my eyes from my laptop screen as they finish their routine, their heads held high as they breathe like they’ve been doing a marathon.
They skate toward the edge of the rink, and the camera pans to a different couple as they prepare to take to the ice. I close the laptop, uncaring about anyone else. They don’t come close to the girl who occupies my mind for more hours in the day than I’d like to admit.
We should never have agreed to one night. We should never have agreed to anything at all.
Grabbing my key card from the table next to the window, I leave my room and head for the hotel bar. The elevator doors ping open, and I step out into the lobby, looking around for signs to the closest bar. It’s packed, filled with skaters, families, and spectators here for the Grand Prix final.
“Ah, Wyatt, good to see you,” Mr. Cartwright says, rounding a corner with Nancy on his arm. They’re dressed to the nines, the epitome of money, as my boss holds out his hand.
“Good evening, sir. How was the competition?” I ask, shaking it and acting like I don’t know how well his daughter performed today.
“Pippa was fantastic,” he answers proudly. “We could hardly believe the routine they did. They’ve come so far since their first competition a few months ago.”
“I just wish she would see how amazing she is,” Nancy adds. "Instead of beating herself up. She won’t know how well they did until the ceremony tomorrow.”
My back stiffens, and I try to sound casual when I ask, “She’s not with you?”
Mr. Cartwright shakes his head, his eyes flickering toward the elevator banks. “She’s holed up in her room. She didn’t want to see anyone when she got back. She even declined our invite to take her out for dinner to celebrate.”
“I thought she did well?” I question, feigning any knowledge of their performance. In my eyes, she won first place.
“She did,” Nancy says emphatically, her arm looping into her husband's in frustration. “That’s the thing. She’s always so hard on herself; unless it's gold, she doesn’t see it as a win.”
“Honey, you know better than anyone that athletes are stubborn creatures. Or at least our Pippa is.”
Nancy closes her eyes and takes a calming breath. “I know. I just hate the pressure she puts on herself.”
Mr. Cartwright pats her hand affectionately. “Let's go get you a drink, my love. We’ll celebrate Pippa’s achievement even if she’s not there.” He tips his head to me. “Have a good night, Wyatt.”
“You, too, sir.”
I watch them leave before heading into the bar, walking straight up to the server and ordering a drink.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Sexy Pilot Man.”
My jaw ticks as a male voice sounds from behind me. I don’t recognize it, but the use of the name Pippa called me once before is a good clue.
“Evan,” I say curtly.
The bartender appears in front of me, brandishing a napkin and placing a glass on top of it. “Your vodka on the rocks, sir.”
“Oh, that sounds good. I’ll have one, too,” Evan muses. Leaning across the bar, he watches the guy make his drink.
“Congratulations on your performance,” I commend, rolling the glass around in my hand, the ice clinking lightly off the sides.
“Thanks, man.” He sounds genuinely surprised, as if he didn’t expect the compliment. “I didn’t realize you were there.”
I grimace, mentally chastising myself for saying that. “I wasn’t. I just assumed you did well.” He stares at me like he doesn’t quite believe me. “And I ran into Mr. Cartwright.”
He snorts. “Yeah, okay. You can admit you watched the coverage.”
“And why would I have done that?” I ask, side-eyeing him.
A glass appears in front of him, and he lifts it to his lips, speaking before he takes a sip. “Because you wanted to watch your girl skate.”
“She’s not my girl,” I grind out.
“But you wish she was.” As I turn to look at him fully, my hand itches to punch the shit-eating grin off his smug face. He smiles, waving at someone behind me before returning his attention to me. “You know she’s up in room 909 feeling pretty sorry for herself right now?”
His deliberate mention of her room number is embarrassing, but then again, so is the way my pulse spikes at the knowledge of where she is in this vast hotel. Evan watches me as he sips his vodka, waiting to see what I’ll do.
Grabbing my glass, I swallow the liquid in one go, slamming the empty tumbler onto the bar top when I’m done. “Has anyone told you you’re a real shit-stirrer?”
He winks, tipping his drink to me. “All the time.”
I glare at him before marching out of the bar, hearing his taunting voice as he calls after me, “I guess your drinks on me, then.”
The elevator can’t come quick enough as I pound the call button, and several guests begin to file behind me to wait. The doors slide open, and I walk in first, my fingers hovering over the buttons on the panel before stabbing the round 12 button and going straight to the back, making room for everyone else.
It’s not exactly busy in the car, but as I stand in the corner, watching the five different floors being selected, one in particular shines brighter than all the others. I crack my neck, working out the knots as we slowly ascend, dropping guest after guest at their assigned level until we reach the ninth floor.
An older couple leaves, arm in arm, and the desire to follow them makes me very aware of my feet. Staring out in front of me, my fingers flex as I look at the plaque on the wall, pointing down the hall to where room 909 is located. The brushed metal taunts me that it might as well have a neon light flashing around it. I can feel my heart thud heavily in my chest as a part of my brain wars with itself to stay put or move until the decision is made for me and the doors start to shut.
Without thinking, my arm snaps out, stopping them from closing, and I step out and walk in the direction of Pippa’s room.
My hand is poised, ready to knock, when the door swings open.
“How…?”
Pippa holds up her phone.
Evan
Mr. Sexy Pilot Man is coming to land.
“Original,” I deadpan, then snatch her phone and quickly reply.
Pippa
Fuck off.
She hides a smile when she takes back her cell, reading over my message. “That’s rude.”
“He deserves it.”
She gives a half-suppressed laugh, the sound odd, as she stands to the side. We don’t speak as I walk inside, the door closing behind me with a soft snick. I wander around, admiring the expensive décor and high-class furnishings, wondering if the team or her father paid for this room.
“You were spectacular today,” I say, tearing my gaze from the window and turning to look at Pippa. “At least that’s what the commentators kept saying. All I knew when I was watching was that I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
“You watched?” she asks, her voice small but surprised, and I nod. She chews on her lower lip, mulling it over, and that’s when I notice that her eyes are rimmed red, her cheeks slightly puffy, like she’s been crying.
I frown, about to ask what’s wrong, when she whispers, “I could have been better.” She hangs her head, and I hate the way her voice cracks when she speaks. “I should have trained harder, I should have done the less advanced version of the jump, I should…”
She releases a shaky breath as her eyes brim with unshed tears. I’m on her in a second, not entirely sure what I’m doing, as I wrap my arms tight around her. Every part of me twists up, watching this strong girl fall apart, her fingers clutched into the sides of my shirt, her body coiled tight in my hold. She doesn’t shudder, barely moves, and I know she’s holding in her tears.
“Your routine was perfect,” I tell her again, and she shakes her head against my chest.
“It wasn’t. If you know the sport, if you know the things we’re judged on, you’d have seen everywhere it went wrong.”
“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself?” I ask, but then instantly know that’s not the right thing to say as she shoves away from me, her hands flying into her hair.
“I got third,” she cries, her face turning red as a thick vein runs across her forehead, throbbing violently. “I can’t afford third.”
“I thought you didn’t find out until tomorrow. At the medal ceremony or whatever?”
“Rumors,” Pippa sighs, dejected. “You know what it’s like, people talk, Wyatt. It might be speculation, but we have a pretty good idea of the placements. It’s just a matter of time until they announce us as third place.” Closing her eyes, she lets her head fall back. “I should have been better.”
“Why just you?”
Her head snaps up as she glares at me. “What?”
“Why should you have done better? You’re part of a pair…” I gesture toward the door. “But Evan is down in the hotel bar, having drinks with the other skaters. He is not hiding in his room feeling sorry for himself.”
She opens her mouth, ready to argue, but shuts it again, her expression pinched. I run my hand through my hair in frustration because Nancy’s right, watching her tear into herself is horrible.
“Why aren’t you enjoying it with him?” I continue, taking a step toward her. “You skated to the best of your ability the last two days, but instead of celebrating making it to the final of a massive competition in your first year on Team USA, you’re stressing about all these different things you have no control over—control that was taken away as soon as your routine finished. You can’t go back and change anything by focusing on the what ifs .”
She huffs bitterly, her jaw hard as she looks away, avoiding eye contact.
“How does all this stress and beating yourself up make it worth it? How does that make it fun? Doesn’t enjoyment and the love for the sport play into how you are on the ice?” As I inch closer, she crosses her arms, hunching in on herself. “The girl I saw skating in Lake Placid was not the girl skating today. Coach Pippa lets herself make mistakes; she shows the kids that it's okay to mess up and that as long as you put your all onto the ice, it doesn’t matter what happens as long as you love what you do. Professional Pippa is a contradiction.
“What happens when you get the gold? What comes next? You’re still young. You’re at the start of your career. If it’s not this time, it will be next time or…”
“There might not be a next time,” she yells, throwing her arms wide before she starts pacing the room. “There are newcomers all the time, new competition, new people who are better than me.”
“You can’t compare yourself to other people, Pippa.”
Eyes blazing with defiance, her throat works on a swallow before continuing. “There are people betting against me, waiting for me to fail.”
“Who?”
She falters, losing some of her momentum. “Journalists. Other skaters on the team. Everyone who thinks I got here because of my last name. You have no idea how much harder I have to work just to prove myself…”
“You’ve already done that,” I tell her, and she side-eyes me dubiously. “It’s true. Look at where you are, Pippa. You’re in France, competing against some of the best athletes out there. Fuck what anyone has to say about that. You earned your place here. Besides, the articles about you aren’t as bad as you think they are.”
“How would you know?” she sneers, and I raise a hand placatingly.
“Because I read them.”
She looks at me, taken aback. “What? When?”
“After I was mistaken about you and Evan being romantic partners, not professional ones.” Her eyebrows jump up her forehead, and I run my fingers over my jaw. “Don’t read too much into that. All I’m saying is, stop thinking the worst. The commentators today were nothing but complementary.”
With a huff, she looks around the room like she’s trying to find more reasons to argue with me. But she appears less frantic now, more resigned than anything else as she says, “I could get an injury. And then what? It’s all over, and the best I ever did was bronze?”
She drops her head, and I move to stand in front of her, my hands clasping either side of her face, forcing her to look at me.
“Stop. You were fantastic out there. That lift?” My thumb lightly brushes over the apple of her cheek, our gazes unwavering as we look at one another. “I couldn’t breathe. You were amazing.”
“But I wasn’t perfect.”
I lower my forehead to hers, catching her eyes fluttering shut before we touch. “Perfect is an unachievable concept. Wanting perfection can spoil something already great.”
We stand there, pressed together, barely a whisper apart, sharing each other’s air.
“I want the Olympics so bad, Wyatt,” she whispers, vulnerability laced into her words.
Leaning back, I search her eyes. My heart stutters as I look at her, my mouth drying as the air between us becomes charged, the lust that constantly courses around my body mixing with a longing I’ve had since she walked out of my house the morning after.
I give myself a piece, a mere fragment of what I really want. Leaning forward, I press a kiss on her brow, the feel of her skin beneath my lips so fucking good. “You’ll have it.”
She releases a shuddering breath, playing with the buttons on the bottom of my shirt. My pulse pounds as she stares up at me, her gaze intoxicating, casting me under her spell.
“Wyatt,” she whispers, her fingers dipping under and brushing against my stomach.
I lick my lips while she bites on her lower one. “I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t come here for…”
“I know,” she says, somehow aware that my intention of turning up at her door was not for a repeat. Hearing that she was in her room reminded me of the fragile woman on the plane, the one who wouldn’t stop trembling after the storm. The one I felt like had to comfort then, but the one I want to comfort now.
“I should go.” Even though I don’t want to.
“Don’t. I like that you’re here.” Her fingers graze against my skin again, sending goosebumps across it. “You’re a nice distraction.”
“You can’t have distractions.” My eyebrows knit together. “Wasn’t it—”
“Shh,” she whispers. Reaching between us, she presses her finger to my lips. “Stop frowning like that. You’ll get more wrinkles.”
My hands move from where they still hold the side of her face, my fingers threading into her hair. “I thought you found wrinkles sexy?”
Her grin is slow as she grabs onto the top of my shirt and fists it tight. “Only yours.”
She pushes onto her tiptoes as I tilt my face toward hers, our lips crashing together. I haven’t stopped thinking about her kisses in over two weeks. I haven’t wanted anything more than this as my tongue delves inside her mouth, drawing throaty moans from her. Pippa’s fingers deftly unbutton my shirt, the fabric floating open, and she drags her fingers down my chest.
“We shouldn’t…” I murmur against her jaw, kissing along it and down her neck, knowing I have no intention of stopping.
“Please, Wyatt,” she begs as her hands lower to my pants, tugging at the zipper. I circle her wrists to stop her before she can shove inside, my cock throbbing and desperate to feel her again.
Stepping back, I stare at the woman who single-handedly has the power to destroy me, before glancing at the door behind her.