Chapter Thirty-Five
“Do I need to bring a suit?”
“I don’t know. Hold on.” I can hear Bowie’s muffled voice as I set my phone into the holder, the magnetic case starting to charge it as I drive. “How the hell should I know?” he says louder, before, “Here. Talk to Mason.”
“I swear, Wyatt, trying to help your brother pack is a stress I don’t need,” Mason grumbles, making me chuckle. “What’s up?”
“Do I need a suit for this meeting in Québec?”
Mason hums down the line. “I would say no. Reign isn’t exactly business formal. He’s more of a leather jacket and tight denim jeans kinda guy.”
“So casual, but not scruffy.”
“Dude, when are you ever scruffy? Just flash him your tattoos, and I bet he’ll be putty in your hands,” Mason says, as Bowie yells in the background, “You better not be hitting on my brother.”
“I’ve only got eyes for you, babe,” he shouts back, and I can practically feel the sarcasm through the phone. “Are you ready for this weekend?”
I bob my head, even though he can’t see me. “Just got to pack, and then I’ll head to your place Saturday morning.”
“Oh god, please say you’re not a nightmare like Bowie. He’s already tipped out his suitcase twice, citing that he can’t remember what he’s put in there.”
“That’s why I pack the night before. That way, I don’t forget.”
Mason’s sigh sounds exasperated and I can picture him tugging at his hair. “We’re going to Canada…with shopping malls, not some desert with nothing around.”
“Hey, you’re with a Grant man now,” I tease. “Got to get used to it.”
“Good thing I love your brother,” he replies wistfully. “Listen, I wanted to check that you’re sure about all of this.”
I love that my brother’s boyfriend is just as concerned as Bowie. “I’m sure.”
“You know if it doesn’t go well, I can—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off. I appreciate him more than he knows. “But you’ve already talked me up, so now it’s my turn.”
“And we’ve got all the faith,” Bowie says, joining in the call. “Right now, we need to go, though. I need Mason to help me with something…”
“If that’s code for you wanting sex, you need to learn about subtlety,” I tease, pulling up to a stop sign.
“Fine. I haven’t seen my man in three days, and I need to fuck him hard so he remembers how much he loves my cock.”
Mason makes a strangled sound down the line. “No, we’re not. We’re going to meet my sister—”
“Whatever.” I bark a laugh. “Enjoy.”
I hang up, cutting off Mason berating my brother for embarrassing him, and pull up Pippa’s number.
“Hi,” she answers, her tone clipped.
“Everything okay?”
“ Urgh, it’s fine. It’s just Coach. I don’t think anyone’s seen her act this way before,” she says, sighing heavily through the speakerphone. “As much as she’s started to grow on me the last few months, I really cannot wait for our downtime, and I won’t have to see the woman for nearly two whole months.”
“But without her, you and Evan wouldn’t be competing at Worlds next week, would you?”
She groans. “Why do you always have to be so pragmatic?”
“I’m not always,” I reply, flicking the indicator and turning onto the highway leading to Greenwich.
“Sure, you’re not,” she snorts, and I can hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down the line.
I picture her sitting on the wooden bench inside the locker rooms, her bag on the floor, her skates resting against the side of it as she takes a break from practice.
“Speaking of being reasonable, how are you doing after seeing Fiona?”
“You know that was the worst segue for asking that question, right?”
“How else was I meant to ask? My bad for being worried about you.”
I smile, imagining her pout. “Baby, I’m fine. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“And how’s the search for a therapist going?”
“Good, actually, I had my first session yesterday,” I tell her, checking the rearview mirror before changing lanes.
“Wyatt,” she yells, the sound distorting through the small speaker on my phone. “Why didn’t you tell me? How did it go?”
“I didn’t tell you because you are days away from the biggest competition of your career, and you don’t need to be thinking about my shit. But it went well. She specializes in childhood trauma and attachment. We spent the whole hour discussing how her treatment can help me explore different issues I might have as a result of early relationships or…lack of them.” She’s quiet, hesitating, and I can’t help but laugh. “Pippa, ask your question.”
“Do you think she’ll help?”
I scrub a hand through my hair. “It’s too soon to tell, but I liked her. She seemed nice. Asked if I thought having a family session with Dad and Sadie one day would be beneficial, which I guess couldn’t hurt.”
“That’s really good, Wyatt. You sound sort of excited about it, I guess?”
“Excited? Not exactly. Having someone probe around my head, asking about trust and intimacy issues with the opposite sex, isn’t my idea of fun.”
Especially some stranger who’s getting paid to judge me.
Help…not judge, Sadie’s voice rings in the back of my head.
“Either way, I’m proud of you,” she says, her voice soft and soothing. “And I’m here for you. Whenever you need.”
The spot reserved for Pippa inside my heart lights up. I’m so fucking gone, it’s embarrassing. “Thanks, baby.”
“I wish I was coming home this weekend. I really hate that I don’t get to see you after everything you’ve gone through.”
“Stop that,” I admonish. “We both know you need to stay in Colorado and get your head in the zone. Not tiring yourself out by flying back, just to check I’m okay.” While I wish I could see her, this is the final competition of the season, the competition of the season. I’m nothing in comparison to that.
Pippa hums, the sound salacious even through the phone. “It wouldn’t be the flying that would tire me out.”
It’s as if he can tell his daughter and I are up to no good because as soon as she says that, Mr. Cartwright’s name flashes on my phone. My stomach drops as the waiting call beeps start ringing out. Each one more imposing than the last.
“Shit,” I mutter, my eyes flicking between the screen and out of my windshield.
“What’s wrong?” Pippa asks, her tone urgent, and I can picture her sitting ram-rod straight, her face pinched with concern. “Are you okay?”
I grimace at the phone. “Yeah, but your dad’s calling.”
“Shit,” she echoes. “Okay, go answer it. I need to get back on the ice now, anyway. I’ll call you tonight.”
I don’t have time to answer her because the call clicks over. “Mr. Cartwright, how are you, sir?”
“Wyatt, could you come to my office, please?” His voice makes my blood turn cold. While he might be the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company, Charles Cartwright doesn’t usually sound so formal on the phone.
“Sure, is everything alright?”
“We’ll discuss it in my office.” The line goes dead, and I can honestly say, for the first time in my life, I am shitting myself.
I make the next exit, detouring to New York to meet my boss, where I’m pretty sure he’s going to tell me he knows I’ve been fucking his daughter.
“Mr. Cartwright’s in his office,” his personal assistant says as soon as I walk out of the elevators and onto the top floor of his office building. “He’s expecting you.”
“Thank you,” I say, heading to the door, and lightly knock before stepping inside. I’ve only been in this office a handful of times, mainly when I first took the position as his pilot and then again when he’d told me I would be assigned to Pippa. Even then, I’d never felt the wash of unease inside my stomach.
That’s because, back then, you didn’t know what his daughter looked like naked.
He’s sitting behind his desk, his hands linked together, watching as I walk farther into the room. My nerves are raw as paranoia sets in, and I try to find the hidden signs that he knows. The tight jaw. The pulsing veins. The heavy but calm breathing as he internalizes just how livid he is.
But I don’t find any of that. Instead, he almost looks disappointed…hurt.
“Take a seat, Wyatt,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of him. I scan the top of the large oak desk as I approach, finding neat stacks of paperwork— my paperwork from my flights—across it. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing like he’s in physical pain. “I’ll only ask this once, and I would appreciate an honest answer.”
My heart pounds harder, my hands are sweating, yet I don’t let him see. Composed, my lips pull into a tight line, unwilling to admit guilt until I know what crime I’m guilty of committing.
“Have you been using my planes for your personal leisure?”
I’m about to tell him the truth, admit to seeing his daughter for the last few months, admit to my weakness and inability to stay away from her, even when I knew it was wrong. Admit to falling in love with her, but his question finally registers.
His plane for what?
“Sir?” I ask, my face twisting in confusion.
He sighs again, shuffling his chair forward, picking up several documents, and turning them around to face me. Pink highlighter is splashed across flight paths, fuel receipts, and something that looks like the maintenance logbook. Each date and time stamp is like a beacon, even without being highlighted. Each one an additional flight I made to be with Pippa.
California for the U.S. Championships.
Colorado for the night.
Martha’s Vineyard, along with several others not as expensive as the other two, but still incriminating and unethical.
I swallow, clasping my hands together, looking straight into my boss's eyes, and uttering the words that will only seal my fate. “I have.”
His expel of air is weighted as he leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. There’s a pregnant pause, the tension building with each second. He doesn’t say a word until what feels like hours have passed, and he mutters, “I wish you’d have just come to me.”
“I know, sir, and I’m sorry. It was a lack of judgment.”
“The thing is, the trip to Martha’s Vineyard, I could eat up those costs,” he says with a sternness that could rival my father. “I’d like to think I’m an amenable man, a reasonable man. Twelve hundred dollars is a drop in the ocean for me. But charging over ten thousand on an unsanctioned trip to Colorado or fifteen grand to LAX…” He shakes his head, his eyebrows pinched in the middle. “I can’t allow that. It is unacceptable.”
“I know.”
Even though I’m comfortable in my decision, choosing Pippa over maintaining my clean record, I still pride myself in my professionalism. I never wanted it to come to this . I wanted to leave with integrity and bridges still intact by handing in my resignation after speaking to Pippa, after Worlds, after Québec, after all my ducks are neatly in a row.
“You came with such glowing references, Wyatt. What makes this even more confusing is that your previous employer had no idea you were capable of doing something like this. You never once stepped out of line with him.” He sags back in his chair. “I just don’t understand this. I’ve never given you any reason to think that you couldn’t come to me. You want to use your time off to visit different states? That’s fine. Out of any company, I’d like to think that mine offers job perks much greater than anyone else does. You should have come to me, Wyatt,” he stresses. “ Asked if there was any way you could charter a flight using my jet.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
The way he looks at me sets me on edge. Like he’s fishing for something but doesn’t have the right bait at the end of his line.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you’d like to tell me? Anything that would help me understand why you thought this was okay?”
I shake my head. There is no way I’m going to throw Pippa under the bus and let her take the blame for my actions. Sure, she was the one who had suggested it, but I’m a grown man who can make up his own mind.
“Nothing, sir. I take full responsibility for my actions.”
He looks at me skeptically, like he knows it’s not the complete truth.
But it’s not my truth to share alone.
“Very well.” Mr. Cartwright’s face is grim as he regards me before pulling open a drawer in his desk and sliding an envelope toward me. “I hate to do this, but there really is no other choice. Your employment with Cartwright Oil is terminated. Effective immediately.”
A lump forms in my throat, a bittersweet feeling dusting over my skin.
I was going to quit.
I was going to hand in my notice next week. He just beat me to it.
When it rains, it fucking pours.
Standing, I dust down my pants, lift the envelope, and hold out my hand. He might have fired me, but this is still the father of the woman I love.
“Thank you for everything, Mr. Cartwright,” I say, turning to walk out but stopping at the last second. “If possible, can you not tell Miss Cartwright until next week?”
He nods solemnly. “I think that’s a good idea.”