Chapter 22

I’m not blushing.

Okay, maybe I am blushing, but in my defense, how does anyone not melt when their hot helicopter pilot winks at them and calls them sticky like it’s a pet name instead of a personality flaw?

Have I mentioned he’s hot?

Julian elbows me hard as we step onto the tarmac, where the helicopter gleams under the London sun like a smug little insect made of money. The air smells faintly of jet fuel and sunshine, and the blades are already spinning in slow motion, casting long, flickering shadows across the landing pad.

“You’ve got a crush,” Julian sings under his breath.

“I do not,” I hiss, adjusting my sunglasses to hide the flaming embarrassment crawling up my neck. “He just—he startled me.”

“He startled you into flirting with your whole face?”

I swat at him. “This is a work trip. I’m here to be professional and photogenic.”

“Mission halfway accomplished.”

We walk toward the helicopter, our steps echoing across the concrete—and that’s when a voice calls out behind us.

“Thought I’d lost my favorite passenger.”

I freeze.

Captain Dalton or Theo, as I overheard the front desk lady call him when she handed over our itinerary, is walking toward us like he’s on a catwalk instead of a landing strip. No ice cream this time. No awkward collision. Just him in his pilot uniform, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hanging from his collar, and a smile that could melt the icy walls of Buckingham Palace.

Am I swooning yet?

My stomach does this weird, slow somersault.

“Hi,” I say, way too breathy.

He looks amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

“Didn’t think I’d throw dessert at my helicopter pilot, so… surprises all around.”

Theo chuckles, stepping closer. “You're not planning to launch any more food at me midair, are you?”

“Not unless you're into that.”

Why did I say that?

Julian coughs suspiciously behind me. I ignore him and try not to combust as Theo smiles wider, warm, not smug.

“Noted. I’ll keep the cockpit dairy-free.”

Once we’re buckled in, headsets on, and the rotor roar grows louder, Theo glances back through the mirror above the controls.

“Ready, Sticky?”

I nod like a woman possessed.

“Ready sticky.” Laughing, Julian mimics.

If Julian makes one more joke about me crashing into hot men with dairy products, I’m going to push him out of this helicopter mid-flight.

“I swear to God, Julian.”

He just grins and adjusts his sunglasses, utterly unbothered.

The helicopter lifts, and everything else drops away.

For the next forty minutes, we float above the city like it’s a painting. The Thames coils like a silver ribbon below us, the London Eye spins lazily in the distance, and Big Ben gleams gold in the sun. The streets look neat and bustling, like a dollhouse London with ants for people.

Julian is in full content mode—filming, snapping, adjusting light with his hand like he’s orchestrating a Vogue shoot. He keeps telling me to laugh like someone who doesn’t spiral dramatically in hotel bathtubs.

“Laugh more naturally,” he says for the fourth time.

I try to focus on the view, but I keep sneaking glances at the back of Theo’s head. He’s so still, so composed, like the whole world could tilt and he wouldn’t flinch.

His headset rests snugly in his tousled brown hair, and the sleeves of his uniform reveal forearms that should probably come with a warning label.

Halfway through, the intercom clicks on.

“Charlotte?”

I jump a little. “Yes?”

“You alright back there?”

“Peachy.”

“Good. You went quiet. Thought you might be planning your next attack.”

I grin. “I’m trying to be professional.”

“Pity.”

And just like that, I’m melting again.

Too soon, the flight is over. The helicopter touches down smooth as butter, and we’re escorted back to the waiting area.

Julian starts uploading clips to our team chat, muttering about captions and lighting presets. Theo walks beside me, hands shoved in his pockets.

“You were great up there,” he says.

“So were you,” I blurt, then wince. “Obviously. You’re the pilot.”

He laughs, warm and low.

There’s a pause.

“I know this is wildly unprofessional,” he says, “but… would you like to get a drink sometime?”

He’s watching me, not cocky, just open. Hopeful. Like he actually wants to know me, not just the curated, polished version that shows up in magazine spreads.

I bite my lip. “Are you asking me out?”

“I am,” he says, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If you’re interested.”

God.

“Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Theo smiles like I just made his week. “Then maybe you could give me your number… before I lose you to another ice cream incident?”

I laugh. “I’m only sticky on Thursdays.”

He offers his phone, and I type in my number with fingers that are somehow sweaty and cold.

“Great,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “I’ll text you. Promise not to abuse the power.”

I arch a brow. “You say that now.”

He starts walking backward toward the hangar, still watching me. “Sticky Thursdays,” he calls. “I’ll remember that.”

Then he disappears through the side door.

Julian sidles up behind me, humming. “Well, well, well. The pilot asked you out and didn’t even crash the aircraft. Personal growth.”

I roll my eyes, cheeks flushed. “Don’t start.”

But I can’t stop smiling.