Page 53 of Fly Boy
“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’llcelebrate 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 notmygirl,” 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 knowledgeof 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.
