Page 15 of Fly Boy
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 reallylookat 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 ofhimmassaging 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 withsomething 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 demeanorlooking 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—myfather’spilot—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’ma professional athlete and never got one.”
