Page 41 of Fly Boy
I swallow, my lips parting, the heat from his body radiating across me. “Wy—”
“Good afternoon, Miss Cartwright,” Frank yells out from the other side of the rink as he unlocks the large storage room containing the Zamboni. “You all done?”
Wyatt snaps upright, plucking his hat from my head and stepping back like he wasn’t mere inches away from me a second ago.
My pilot’s hard gaze never wavers as he puts his hat back on and clasps his hands behind his back. “There’s a car outside ready to take you to the airfield, Miss Cartwright.”
I suck in a shaky breath, nodding quickly as he walks away.
“Everything alright, ma’am?” Frank calls out, his beanie hat pulled down to cover his ears. “Did practice go okay?”
“Practice was amazing,” I say, hiding my trembling hands at my sides. “The girls are so excited for their springtime show.”
“I bet. It’s such a nice thing what you’re doing… Y’know, giving them free lessons and all.”
I shake my head and wave off the compliment. “Anyone would do it.”
“Not true,” he insists, making my neck prickle with discomfort. Most wouldn’t because they either don’t have the means to or wouldn’t bear to part with their cash.
I thumb toward the door. “I better get going. I’ve got someone waiting outside.”
He gives me a gloved thumbs-up and disappears inside the storage room. I move as quickly as my skate-clad feet allow, my body buzzing with a charged intensity. I can’t keep doing this, this back-and-forth of want and lust, building up to near-detonation levels, only for it to be wrenched away from me, taking my entire breath along with it.
One and done.That’s what we need. Like Evan said, get it out of our systems so we can go back to normal.
Yet somehow, I worry once with Mr. Sexy Pilot Man won’t be enough.
Chapter Fifteen
I almost kissed her.
I almost fucking kissed her and fucked shit up worse than it already is.
Tossing my towel into the hamper, I walk out of my bedroom and down the stairs. It’s dark, save for the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights in my kitchen as the night sky outside threatens rain.
Gray sweats hang loosely around my hips, my hair still damp from my shower, and my body is still coiled with tension that I’m close to snapping. I know how I’d usually get rid of it. But it’s another Saturday night, staying in instead of going out and getting laid.
My hiatus is going well. Of course, it would be, considering the only person my dick seems to be remotely interested in isthe daughter of the man who pays my salary. And it was fully on board when I almost slipped up today at the rink.
Something about seeing her skate with that little girl wearing those blades—the ridiculously bright pink ones with the princess decals Phillipa struggled to stow away weeks ago—made my heart beat wildly. And then she gave me a glimpse of the woman she is when she takes to the ice competitively.
She was a work of art. Fluid, focused, formidable.
Opening the fridge, I stare at practically bare shelves—cold cuts, mayo, and eggs, the main items inside. I grab a beer and pop the cap, carrying it to the living room, and bring it to my lips, as I slump down onto my sofa. My hand finds the remote, but I don’t turn on the TV. Instead, I cling to it like a lifeline, my eyes staring at a blank screen. The sound of the rain splattering against my window fills the silence, my mind far more interested in reliving Phillipa's skating.
I’ve never searched her name on the internet, never looked her up on social media. Never needed to because how does knowing her stats or how well she can skate make me a better pilot? It doesn’t. It’s only extra fuel for a fire that doesn’t need stoking. Yet watching her today, the way her hair whipped around her, the rosy tinge to her cheeks, the smile on her lips… I’ve never seen anything like it.
She looked free. Free from the stress of her last name. Free from the stress of training. Free to love the sport she’s great at.
At least, that’s what it felt like to me. And god help me, I need to see it again.
I strum my fingers against my beer bottle, my skin tingling, my leg bouncing until I set the glass on the side table, and I tug my phone out of my sweatpants pocket. It unlocks, my home screen bright and tempting, the icon that looks like a compass taunting me. I could just watch one competition. See how Phillipa, the coach, compares to Phillipa, the professional.
Before sense takes over, I pull up the internet and type her name into the search bar. Articles upon articles appear in seconds, along with TikTok clips, reels, and YouTube videos…all showing different competitions with Evan. Clicking on one at random, it begins to play, an acoustic version of some Ed Sheeran song filtering from the phone’s speakers.
She’s in a navy-blue skin-tight dress with a silver slash running down the middle, glittering off the spotlight that follows her around. Her short skirt billows with each glide of her blades, fluttering against her legs. Evan flashes on the screen, matching Pippa in a one-piece-looking thing, the pair of them the epitome of elegance, as the camera tracks them around the ice.
She doesn’t smile or show any emotion as she spins into Evan’s chest, her hand reaching up so the back of it can caress his face. I sit up straighter, zoning in on his hand placement. It grips Phillipa’s waist, his fingers coiled around where I had mine barely a week ago.
