One dark brow lifts above the aviators. “Such as?”
“I’m supposed to be getting acar?”
“You’re coming with me. I need to get to Skye, and apparently, you need to be there too.”
Absolutely fucking not.
“I don’t want to impose. I can totally catch a bus. Or hitchhike! Or just run behind the helicopter!” A manic laugh bubbles out of me. “Honestly, don’t worry about me. You’ll have so much more room to stretch out without me cluttering up the aircraft.”
I gesture to emphasize the space thing and end up pointing directly at his crotch.
His jaw flexes. “As entertaining as it would be to watch you attempt aMission: Impossiblestunt off my tail rotor, I need to be in Skye before the weather window closes.”
There might be a joke buried in all that Northern steel, but it’s hard to tell when he’s looking at me like that.
He steps closer, until I’m acutely aware of how much bigger he is than me. “I don’t have time for this. You’d rather spend four hours on public transport than see the Highlands from above?”
The majestic scenery of the Highlands is great, but it can go fuck itself. I’d rather have the inside of a Ford Fiesta, a service station sausage roll in hand, and zero risk of dying in a propeller-related accident. Thanks very much.
But then again… Patrick’s a billionaire. He’ll have hired some world-class pilot—ex-RAF with thousands of flight hours who could land this thing blindfolded in a blizzard. I’ll be perfectly safe.
I give him a panicked smile. “Right. Yep. Helicopter it is. Sorry for holding things up.”
His gaze drops to my suitcase. “Is that all you’ve got?”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t notice how my knuckles have gone white around the handle.
He swings open the passenger door and jerks his head toward the seat. “In you get, then.”
Totally casual, like this isn’t the opening scene of my glamorous but preventable obituary.
“I’m sitting up front?” I blink at the cockpit.
“Someone’s got to keep the pilot awake,” he says, so deadpan I genuinely can’t tell if he expects me to provide in-flight entertainment.
I hover at the helicopter door. The step’s higher than I expected, awkwardly spaced, and I perform a tentative test bounce.
“I’m not much of a climber,” I mutter, instantly cringing. It’s three feet, not Everest.
He clears his throat. “May I?”
Before my brain can process what’s happening, his hands are on my waist. Not in a swoony romantic way, more like I’m an awkward piece of equipment he needs to hoist into the overhead compartment.
Holy hell, his hands are huge. They practically span my entire waist, warm and solid through my coat. I suck in a sharp breath as he lifts me like I weigh nothing and deposits me onto the seat.
My bag follows, tossed into the back.
“When does the pilot arrive?” I ask, my stomach doing gymnastics.
He pulls off his aviators. When those glacier-blue eyes lock onto mine, my lungs forget their job.
He braces one arm against the open door.
Did he not hear my question?
Or did the words just dissolve into the Highland air?
His gaze drops to my lap.
