Page 35 of Fly Boy
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 nondescriptwhite 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.”
