Page 23 of Fly Boy
My entire body tremors, muscles tense and rigid.
“Miss Cartwright, breathe. Do it with me, okay?” I hear the sound of a long, calming inhale, followed by an exhale.
C’mon, Pippa. In for three, out for three.
“Phillipa.”
I try to take a deep breath, the tightness in my chest making it damn near impossible. Warmth surrounds the back of my neck, a strong pressure squeezing as a deep voice counts. “That’s it. One…”
Two…
Three…
A thumb pushes against my pulse point, the firm and steady strum against my skin somehow grounding.
“Hey.” The words almost a whisper–soft and gentle, the way you’d speak to a spooked animal. My hair flutters as the hand moves, the fingers brushing it back from my face, gently tucking it behind my ear. “Pippa. You’re okay.”
Finally, a rasping breath leaves my lips, the tremors turning into full-blown shaking as dizziness hits me like a tidal wave. I can’t hear the engines or feel the lurches of the wind. I open my eyes, glancing out the window. Gray tarmac. Green grass. Rain sliding down the panes.
We’ve landed.
“Hey. Look at me.” Wyatt’s hand finds my cheek, guiding my head to meet his blue gaze raking over my face. “We had to do a go-around and ended up diverting, but it’s okay. You’re safe. It’s over.”
I open my mouth to speak, yet nothing comes out. I didn’t even know we’d landed. I bob my head, the movement jerky. Our gazes meet, and my spine prickles with awareness. We’re so close that I can see the flecks in his irises, each individual eyelash, the groove between his eyebrows from his incessant frowning. My cheek heats in his palm, and I want to nuzzle intohis hold, close my eyes, and stay here forever. Or at least until my heart beats normally again.
But would it ever, if Wyatt continues to touch me?
“We’re on the ground in northwest Kansas,” he explains, releasing me. To my embarrassment, I miss the contact so much that I have to stop myself from chasing it. “I’m going to see if I can order you a car to drive you the rest of the way to Colorado.”
He goes to stand, and it’s the first time I realize he’s crouched down, one hand gripping the bottom of the armrest, holding himself steady. My arm snaps out, grabbing his wrist, and I frantically shake my head. “No.”
He raises his eyebrows questioningly. “No?”
“I don’t want to travel anymore,” I whisper, swallowing thickly. “I—I want to stay here.”
Wyatt grimaces, trying not to make it obvious as he checks his watch. “Miss Cartwright, this is a private airstrip and costs a fortune each hour we stay. I really need to get…”
“Please,” I beg. Imploring him with my eyes, I tighten my grip. He glances at my hold, his forehead wrinkling. I want to poke at the indents, touch his skin, and feel the features that he’s developed over time. I want to feel something other than the panic trembling through my veins. “Don’t leave me.”
I watch as different emotions flit across his face—hesitation, reluctance but, worst of all, pity. My skin tightens with discomfort, and I drop my hold, mentally cringing as I push my back against my seat, creating distance.
“I’ll need to inform your father,” he says, standing. “Are you okay to wait here?” He hesitates like he wants to say more, but once I’ve nodded, he turns and walks back to the cockpit.
As soon as his back is turned, leaving me alone again in the cabin, my eyes water. Slumping forward, I hide my face in my hands, my lip quivering as a sob threatens to escape. I fight to hold it in, begging myself to keep it together.
This is so embarrassing. A little turbulence never hurt anyone. Yet here I am, close to blubbering like a baby, sucking in my breaths as I try not to break down. Wyatt’s already calmed me, brought me back from the edge once already, and I’ll be damned if he needs to do it again.
I sit up and look at the ceiling of the plane, blinking furiously, forcing the tears away, and slide on the mask I wear every day at practice. Phillipa Cartwright isn’t some weak, scared little girl. She’s strong, capable, and has her shit together.
“Miss Cartwright?”
“Yeah?” I croak, tugging the ends of my sleeves over my hands.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I repeat, my voice an octave higher than I’d like. “I don’t know why I was being so ridiculous. It’s only turbulence. No big deal.”
He itches his chin, his expression pinching, like he’s looking at a different girl than the one he left close to falling apart moments ago. He’d be right. Vulnerable Pippa isn’t one I get the luxury of showing the world. Vulnerable Pippa could be torn into shreds by the vultures waiting for me to fail.
