by Sara Cate
Finally, he glances up at me, and I remember what Nash said on the boat. Teaching his kids how to fly was something Alistair took pleasure in. This was his element, and I know that he probably needs this, but every cell in my body is screaming at me to fight this.
Why do I even give a shit what he needs?
Because it could lead to a few more months and another million in your bank account, Zara, I remind myself. For the money. I can do this for the money.
He’s glaring at me, and I see a hint of Nash in his eyes, that headstrong intensity when faced with a challenge. The Wilde men do not like being told no.
I know he’s not done with me yet, but in the next breath he changes the subject.
“Thanksgiving is coming,” he says before averting his eyes to his computer. “I’d like Nash to go to my parent’s ranch up north for the weekend. You will have to convince him.”
He’s giving me another task, another challenge, and judging by the cool tone in his voice, this won’t be an easy one. This is his way of scolding me for pushing back on the flying lesson. I stand, putting the book back on the shelf and waiting to hear exactly what he has in mind for me.
“You will go with him,” he adds, and my cheeks flush. The thought of meeting Nash’s grandparents makes me nauseous.
“You want me to meet your parents?” I ask, as if he spoke without really thinking.
“Of course, why not?”
“I’m not really the girl rich boys bring home to meet the family.”
“Why?” he asks, looking up at me. “Because you’re a stripper?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Well, then just try to keep your clothes on when my mother serves the turkey.”
“Very funny,” I snap. “I’m being serious.”
He stands, buttoning his jacket, the motion of his fingers nimbly moving lighting up something in my belly. Quickly, I look away.
“So am I, Zara. Nash hasn’t seen them in over a year, and a normal holiday spent with family will be good for him.” As he rounds his desk, moving for the door, I look up at him as he passes me, brushing the skin of my arm with his shoulder.
“What about you?” I gently ask.
“I’ll be working.” His voice is cold and distant. I suspect there’s something more here that he’s not telling me.
“On Thanksgiving?”
“It’s better if Nash gets time with them without me.”
It’s still less than convincing, but I’m not going to pry right now. Instead, I nod. “Sure. I’ll talk to him. But I think you should come.”
Without another word, he turns and walks out of his office, only turning back toward me to make sure I follow him.
Lying on Nash’s bed, I scroll through my phone, the smell of Astrid’s famous pork roast wafting through the house. The TV is on in the corner, and we’re supposed to be watching American Horror Story, but neither of us can relax enough to get into it.
Nash and I haven’t had sex or even touched since that night on the boat. It’s almost like...we haven’t had any aggression to take out, so what’s the point?
Instead, we’ve settled into this routine. During the day, I read in Alistair’s office. Evenings are spent lazily watching TV with Nash.
“So, your dad mentioned that we could go to your grandparents’ for Thanksgiving.”
Nash scoffs. “I bet he did. He wants me to go for him.”
“Why?” I ask.
“All they do is talk about Preston. Plus my grandpa and my dad don’t get along so well.”
“That seems to run in the family,” I add, turning to see his face.
“My dad’s a hypocrite...you’re not the first to notice.”
“Still,” I say, nuzzling into his arms. “I’d like to go. I don’t get to do family holidays very often.”
Nash lets out a groan. “We could stay here and pretend it’s just another day of the week.”
“I’ve been here for almost a month already. Come on, Nash. I need to get off this island for a few days, and a big, fat turkey dinner sounds nice. Plus, maybe with me there they won’t talk about Preston so much.”
“What about him?” he asks, nodding his head to the empty doorway, and I know he’s talking about Alistair.
“He said he’s staying here. Working.”
Nash scoffs. “Avoiding his dad.”
It’s quiet a moment, and I know he’s contemplating it. Fidgeting with the case on his phone, he finally looks at me. “Fine, we’ll go. On one condition.”
“What?”
“I’m flying us there. Just you and me.”
My heart races. For a moment I start to feel dizzy thinking about it. That one flight with Alistair was hard enough, but I have a feeling this flight will be a lot longer and Nash is a little out of practice. But Alistair’s words come back to me. You have a steel fucking heart.
I can do this. For one million dollars, I have to.
“Of course,” I reply trying to fake a calm demeanor so he can’t see me panic.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, why not? It’s better than Alistair trying to teach me to fly. Maybe if I tell him you’re flying up north next week, he’ll leave me alone.”
Nash’s brow furrows as he glances over at me. “He’s still trying to teach you?”
“I told him to rot in hell...basically.” My focus is back on my phone, scrolling mindlessly through Thanksgiving dinner Pinterest boards, my mouth watering already.
“You should let him teach you.”
I’m so focused on these images of cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes I almost don’t hear him. “What?”
“Just take his stupid lessons.”
I glance over at Nash, confusion on my face. “But I thought—”
“Don’t look too much into it. I still think he’s an asshole, but I’m just saying...it might do everyone some good. He likes teaching it and you could stand to learn it. So, just do it.”
I’m still staring at him with my mouth hanging open when Astrid pops her head in and calls us down for dinner.
Nash throws his phone in the pocket of his hoodie and jumps off the bed. In one conversation, he basically admitted he would fly again, and he agreed to something nice for his father. Is this really freaking happening? I’m having a positive effect on Nash Wilde? The idea of staying longer than three months and earning more than a million seemed like too much to ask for, but now I’m feeling pumped at the idea. If I can get him talking to his dad by Christmas, I might actually stand a chance to convince him to start working again after the New Year. As I hop off the bed and follow him down the hallway, I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
18
My hands won’t stop shaking. I’m in no way ready to get in this thing again, but after my win yesterday with Nash, I figure I might as well give Alistair what he wants too. Another three months on the island could mean another million dollars for me. I have to at least try.
Alistair walks out, and I’m struck speechless. He has on aviator sunglasses and navy blue shorts with a white linen shirt. Prickles of excitement shimmer through my body as I try to look away. Alistair is too good looking for a fifty-year-old man. Especially a single, fifty-year-old man. I really need to get these thoughts out of my head. When the fuck did this happen?
“Morning,” I say with forced enthusiasm.
“Are you ready for this?”
“I thought we could do that thing where we drink a bottle of wine in the cockpit again.” I send him a playful smile, but he only grimaces.
“Nice try.” As he steps up next to me, I get a whiff of his cologne again—earthy and delicious. He keeps his gaze off my face when he opens the door, ushering me inside.
My hands are still shaking when he climbs in the other side, but I don’t know if it’s because of the flight anymore. The sudden nearness, shoulder-to-shoulder again has me feeling restless.
“Are you sure you’re allowed to be teaching me this? Don’t you have to b
e certified or something?” I ask.
A coy smile plays on his lips. “I am certified,” he replies. “Okay, we’re going over the terms first. Pay attention.”
One by one he points at every dial and lever or button in the aircraft, reciting the name and having me repeat it, but I’m already forgetting everything. I’m distracted by his arms, the dark tan of his skin and the muscles flexing against his shirt. I’m thinking about how when I was with Nash that night on the boat, my mind went to Alistair. How dirty I felt when I came with that vision in my head. My thighs clench together at the thought.
“Okay, what’s this?” he asks, pointing to the lever in front of us.
“The throttle?”
He sighs. “Collective.”
“What’s this?” This time he points to the dial on the right.
“Speedometer?”
“Altimeter. Did you listen to anything I said?” He runs through them again, then gives me another pop quiz that I fail immediately. He heaves a heavy sigh, and I actually hear his teeth grind. I hate feeling like I’m disappointing him, and I keep my lip pinched between my teeth as I try to follow along.
He’s avoiding my face, I can tell. He keeps glancing my way, but his gaze bounces back every time it lands on me. If he wasn’t so frustrated with my lack of ability to retain knowledge, I’d almost think he was nervous around me.
“What if I’m just not meant to learn this?” I ask, looking out at the horizon, warming from the rising sun.
“You remind me of Preston.”
My eyes dash over to his face, a little shocked he brought him up.
“How so?”
“He hated learning to fly, and I think he especially hated learning it from me.”
“I don't hate learning from you,” I whisper.
He rubs his forehead, staring out at the blue sky. “I don’t know why I want you to learn so bad. I forced him to learn, and I regret it. A lot.”
I have to swallow down the knives suddenly gathering in my throat as I reach out a hand and place it on his. I don’t know if he’s referring to his strained relationship with Preston before he died or if it’s the fact he died in the same aircraft he taught him to fly. Either way, pain radiates off of Alistair like a beam of light.
And it’s doing something to me. Tugging at a string tied around my heart, making me want to fix it, heal him, feel what he’s feeling. I don’t feel this way with Nash, but Nash’s pain translates into something different. His is rage and anger that I absorb and reflect, but Alistair’s wounds run deeper, and he hides them better.
“I’m here. Let’s just do this.” When he finally looks at me, the shell we’ve built around ourselves starts to crack. He wraps my fingers around mine, and the inside of the aircraft grows silent.
His hand is warm and soft except for the subtle calluses I can feel around his palm, and I imagine a younger version of Alistair, working with his hands, building machines from the ground up. Another bolt of warmth shoots through me.
It feels like ages while we stare at each other before he finally glances away, clearing his throat and getting back to his instruction. Alistair pulls his mask up so easily to hide his pain, and I wonder how long he can do that before he cracks. Before the weight of it all shatters him.
Breaking the tension, he puts the headphones on my head, and I hear his voice through them, the soothing, deep tone sending chills down my spine. Once he finally fires up the engine and the rotor blades above us start spinning, he shows me how he manages to make us turn and pitch with the use of the peddles at his feet. We’re only inches off the ground, and already, my stomach is clenched and turning. Still, I manage to focus a little better this time, and actually answer his questions correctly. He insists we still go for a short ride even though he will be the one flying.
When we take off, I don’t have to squeeze my eyes closed, but I do still have to hold onto him as if his body is grounding me. If I hold onto him tight enough, I won’t fall.
At one point, he no longer needs his right hand and our fingers intertwine like before. It feels so comfortable, so real. As if holding hands is the only thing we can do that isn’t crossing a line.
His words from the night in the kitchen come back. He admitted to me that he has to remind himself I’m Nash’s, and I stored that thought away, assuming he was just attracted to my body. I assumed I was just a young girl trailing around his island in a bikini, another meaningless distraction, but with every interaction between us, I feel it shift. I want to believe it’s more than that. Why on earth do I want to believe it’s more than that?
While we fly, he tries to show me things I need to learn, and I manage to retain most of it, but he still has my hand in his, and my brain is struggling to process anything other than that.
“Nash was a hands-on learner,” he says. “He hated all the reading and the studying. One day when he was about twelve, he just took over. Grabbed the cyclic and that was it. He was hooked.”
I love hearing him talk about the boys when they were young, but I have a feeling he has a point to this story.
“Go ahead, Zara.” He nods his head toward the black bar in front of me. See, I’ve already forgotten the name of it.
“No way.” I can’t even look at it.
“I’m not going to let anything happen. I can take control over here if I need to, but you should at least get a feel for it. Go ahead.”
I don’t want to tell him that the reason I don’t want to take control is that I don’t want to let go of his hand. I hate to think that he won’t give it back to me when I’m done. Up here, it feels like I can hold his hand, and we don’t have to define it or stress about what it means that we both love the comfort it gives us.
This little crush I’m growing on Alistair is getting seriously in the way of my fear of flying if I’m willing to take one of his hands while he keeps us in the air.
But he lets go of my hand anyway, and I have no choice. I grab the controls in front of me and immediately feel the power pulsing through it.
“I’m going to let go, and I want you to hold us steady.”
“Alistair, no!” I panic.
“I’ve got you, baby. Nothing is going to happen to us.”
My heart is pounding so hard it’s pulsing in my ears but not so loud I don’t hear him call me baby. It falls out of his mouth so naturally I am dying to hear it again. Nash doesn’t call me anything.
Alistair’s voice in my ear gives me strength to take control and before I know it he’s pulling his hands away and all of the power is mine. Every little movement of my hands I can feel in the aircraft. So I make sure to hold very still. Sweat drips down my back as I try to steady my breathing enough to not freak out.
“You’re doing great,” he says, staring at me. The hand that was just interlaced with mine is now on my bare leg, and I'm trying to hold back the urge to pant.
“Don’t let go of me,” I plead.
“I’m not,” he answers without hesitation.
His hand moves to the inside of my thigh, gripping my bare flesh as if he’s trying to pull my leg closer to him. A yelp gets caught in my throat. It’s not a sexual touch, just a strong, affirming grasp.
“Just keep it straight and steady.”
“Okay.” I gulp down the nerves tingling my skin, and it feels like my body is on fire. The vibration under my seat, the hand on my leg, the shaft in my hand. I’m alive, needy, and horny as fuck. If he doesn’t move his hand, I can’t promise I won’t try to fuck it at any moment.
“You’re doing it, Zara,” he says in a potent, deep tone, and it courses through my bloodstream like a drug. His pride and satisfaction pushes me farther, making me feel powerful.
“I’m doing it!” Tears prick behind my eyes. And let’s be real, what I’m doing isn’t actually hard, considering I’m literally doing nothing, but he seems to acknowledge the fact that I was too afraid to even get in one of these a month ago, Now I’m flying it. And I’m not afraid. Not an
ymore.
“Now, I want you to raise the collective.”
“What the fuck is that?” I shriek, feeling my hands tremble.
A throaty grunt carries through the comms as he points to the lever at my side.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I reply. I refuse to say I'm scared.
Keeping my eyes forward, I pull up carefully on the lever. When I feel the aircraft pitch slightly, coming to a slow rise, I let out a squeal of delight. He actually laughs into the mic and gives my leg an extra squeeze.
Fuck, his hand feels higher on my leg than before. I can’t help but think about his fingers working their way up, pulling the elastic of my panties aside, plunging two in while I fly this helicopter. Just the thought sends a wave of heat through me, and I jerk on the cyclic a little too hard.
He flinches and moves to take control before I relax again. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah...your hand,” I stutter. “It’s distracting me.” My voice shakes with nerves as I glance down at his touch.
“Oh,” he responds, but he doesn’t pull away. Staring down, I see out of the corner of my eye as he bites his lip, as if he’s thinking—contemplating his next move.
Then, he dances his fingers along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he says, “Best to learn with a little distraction I think.”
I slam my thighs together, locking his hand in place. There’s a beat of silence. He’s touching me, and I want him to touch me. My mind is too goddamn overwhelmed up here among the clouds to think clearly because it’s not thinking about all the reasons I should not fuck around with Alistair Wilde. All my brain registers is desire.
“Zara,” he says, drawing my name out. “I want you to keep it steady.”
His hand inches upward past the hem of my loose-fitting shorts, and I flinch, sending shockwaves through my body. “Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I gasp, the word coming out of my mouth a little too quickly. I’m squirming in my seat, trying desperately hard to keep the controls steady. With my focus on the skyline and keeping this thing from moving too much, I can still hear the heavy raggedness in his breath.
