Page 97 of Fly Boy
I want to be there for him, support him in any way I can, if he wants me to. But until then, I’ll keep giving him what I know will take his mind off things. Even if just for a night.
Standing at the edge of the cockpit, I weave my arms around Wyatt’s back and gaze up at him. “Dad and Nancy are at St. Barths this weekend.”
“Good for them.” A ghost of a smirk flashes over the corner of his mouth.
I roll my eyes, licking my suddenly dry lips. “So, I was thinking you could come over and stay with me this weekend instead of us going to your place.”
“And no one will be home?”
“No one,” I whisper, shaking my head. “We’d have the house to ourselves.” His hands tighten on my waist as I ghost my lips over his. “And I’d like to show you my tattoo.”
I’ve never seen someone disembark an aircraft so quickly in my life as Wyatt checks everything’s shut off, grabs his flight bag, and descends the stairs. I’m laughing as I follow him, loving that, for once, I’m not the eager one, desperate to get home.
Walking to the staff parking lot, Wyatt opens the passenger door to his car, helping me slide inside. “Such a gentleman,” I croon, batting my eyelashes.
“There will be nothing gentlemanly about me when I get between your legs,” he says, his voice a husky growl. I squeeze my thighs together, my insides clenching in anticipation.
The car ride feels longer than usual, my skin overheating as I keep stealing glances at the man driving me home. For some unknown reason, the little butterflies I’ve become accustomed to take flight as we approach my neighborhood. Suddenly, I’m very aware of how much money my family has, the ostentatiousness of our home, the flashiness of the grounds that surround it.
Since we’re not in my or my driver's car, Wyatt pulls up to the keypad outside the wrought-iron gate, and I lean across him and out the window, purposely rubbing against him as I punch in the code.
He releases a low whistle as he drives forward, following the semi-circular driveway that leads to the pillared front of our house.
“This is…”
“Too much,” I reply when he doesn’t finish his sentence.
“No, fucking stunning,” he says, his gaze fixed out of the window. “I mean, I know your dad has money, butfuck.”
Leaning forward, I peer out of the front window, trying to see the place the way Wyatt does. It is an impressive piece of architecture, but there are far too many rooms, far too many stairs, and far too many windows for my taste.
“I prefer your home to this,” I say, unfastening my seatbelt and getting out of the car.
“Why?”
I screw up my nose as I take in the large house. “This is just so…obnoxious. Yours is—”
“Small?” he laughs.
“Homely.” I freeze when I watch him take out his flight bag, feeling like a fool. “Shit, we should have stopped by your place before coming here.”
“Because…?” he asks, locking the car.
“You don’t have a change of clothes.”
He raises his bag triumphantly. “I started packing a night stop kit after the diversion. Just in case.” He touches my lower back, his hand like a brand on my skin. “I even packed those ridiculous swimming shorts you got me.”
My eyes widen as I whirl around to look at him. “Oh my god, and we’ve got a hot tub.”
“Tattoos…remember? We can’t get them wet for a prolonged period of time.”
“I know,” I scoff, taking his hand and pulling him up the stairs to the front door. “But I can dip my legs in, and you can keep your arm out. Easy.”
“Pippa,” he warns, and I shiver, the reaction a reflex to the way he says my name when he’s trying to act all stern.
“Wyatt,” I mimic, trying not to show him how affected I am by him. “My legs ache from practice and I could use a good soak. I’ll be careful.”
“Such a goddamn brat.”
