Page 37 of Mason

Mason meets me at the car and opens the door. “Where’s Benjamin?” he says, by way of greeting. “I gave instructions for you to call him.”

I force my voice to remain calm, refusing to allow Gertrude to get the best of me on this one. “It’s a long story.” My cheeks burn with humiliation upon realizing I don’t have enough cash to pay for the taxi. “Could you take care of the tab?”

His lips twist into a smirk. “I’ll even apply a generous tip.”

As he does, a loud whirring sound echoes from across the runway, creating a windstorm that whips my hair around my face. When I spot the helicopter winding up for takeoff, my stomach does a summersault. “I am not going up in that.”

Mason scrunches his forehead. “Of course you are.”

“No, seriously,” I say, deadpan. “I don’t think you appreciate my fear of heights.”

“You went in the jet.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “That was different.” Bigger. Safer. Less roller coaster-like. “This is—” I shake my head. “Not happening.”

He holds out his hand. “Trust me.”

Tentatively, I take it, swallowing hard the lump of fear stuck in my throat. With my free hand, I tuck the files close to my chest, hoping they aren’t blown away as the wind from the propellers grows more intense. If not for Mason’s steady forward motion, I would have long frozen, but I match his steps, willing my courage to return.

You’ve got this, Liv.

Mason guides me into a small bucket seat, and buckles me in. After a quick discussion with the pilot, he climbs in beside me, and hands me a headset. I can feel the color drain from my face. “The doors will close, right?”

Because I’ve seen those movies, the ones where people hang out the side, like they aren’t at risk of falling sixty feet to their death.

“You will be securely locked in,” he says, totally serious. “At all times.”

The vibrating metal thrums in my stomach, strong enough to make my teeth chatter. It’s loud! I watch his lips move, which is strangely sensual even though I’m terrified as hell. In my imagination, I pretend that he promises to save me, should anything go wrong, and then the helicopter starts to lift off the ground. I grip the edge of my seat until my fingertips turn white and squeeze my eyes shut.

My stomach is a roiling mess of nerves.

I breathe in. Out. In.

Mason taps my headset. “You’re going to miss the view if you don’t wake up.”

Oh, I’m definitely not sleeping. I pry one eyelid open a sliver, squinting through the window, and my stomach tightens into a knot. We dip toward the skyscrapers, our reflection flashing against their mirrored surfaces, and then disappearing as we ascend. I open the other eye, but keep my gaze level. Don’t look down. Never look down.

“Look down,” Mason yells, pointing at the floor.

Bile rises up my throat and my cheeks puff out. I shake my head, which makes Mason laugh.

To my surprise, we’re not the only helicopter in the sky. I count three in our immediate area. Tourists, Mason explains. Wall Street fades from view, replaced by the bright lights—even under early morning light—of Manhattan. A giant billboard of Garth Brooks stretches up into the clouds, and behind it, an old picture of Britney Spears.

I risk a quick glance below and the traffic weaves in one continuous line through the busy streets, pedestrians shrinking to the size of ants. We cross over the Brooklyn bridge, swooping low enough to make my throat close in, and then up again as we careen toward New York Harbor.

My breath hitches in anticipation.

The chopper loops around the beautiful Statue of Liberty, so close I almost feel like I can reach out and touch her. My chest swells with emotion and I blink back a tear. I catch Mason staring at me in my peripheral vision and look away, embarrassed. He caresses my knee and then takes my hand in his. I have so much to say, but the words don’t—can’t—come out. This is the most magical experience of my life.

Mason says something into his earpiece and the pilot nods. The helicopter makes a sharp turn and we hover over the Hudson River and back through the city. He points to something on the ground, and this time I gather the courage to look.

MetLife Stadium opens up below us. The helicopter begins to descend, as though the football field is luring us in like a magnet. I press my face up to the glass, watching as the sharp white lines come into view. We land on the 50-yard line, the bleachers rising up all around us like mini skyscrapers.

“Jesus,” I say, louder than I intend. “We’re in the middle of a football field.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “So we are.”

The pilot cuts the engine, and the propellers whir slowly to a stop. I exhale a breath I’ve been holding for far too long. “How do you think the Jets will feel about this?”