I step off the elevator, chest high, back straight, ready to tackle my first official day as the personal assistant to Mason Wood. I’m fifteen minutes early and fully caffeinated, though the throb at the back of my skull reminds me that I probably drank too much wine with Renee.

My cheeks flush at the memory of our candid conversation. I absolutely shared too much. Loose lips…

I pull my borrowed messenger bag tighter to my shoulder, and approach the reception desk with a smile. “Gertrude” barely glances up. She hands me a stack of files, the phone number for Mason’s personal driver, and instructions to be at the airstrip within an hour.

Are you fucking kidding me? “Another trip?”

She shrugs. “I just follow orders.”

I blow out a breath. Should I have packed? Would it have killed Mason to text me? “Did he at least leave me a note?”

Gertrude stares at me blankly. “I am the note.”

Right. I stand there, still too confused to speak.

“Would you like me to call the driver?” she prods.

I grasp at the olive branch. “God, yes. Thank you.”

In the elevator, I skim the files, each labeled with the names of various companies that are heavily involved in vigorous stock market trades today. Daylight Holdings has a stake in each of these transactions, which is why we should be glued to the computer, not traipsing across—

Wherever the hell we’re going.

A blast of exhaust fumes hits me as I step out onto the curb, anxiously scanning each of the black Town cars that pass. After ten minutes, I begin to suspect that Gertrude has pulled a fast one on me, and decide to call the driver myself.

“Miss Landers, my apologies,” he says, voice thick with a British accent. “I wasn’t aware you required me today. I’m on the other side of town.”

A scream of frustration inches up my throat. I tamp it back. “No one called you from Mr. Wood’s office this morning?”

“I drove Mr. Wood to the airstrip but there’s been nothing since. Don’t fret,” he says. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

Across the street, a pedestrian makes a run for it, and a car blares on its horn. There’s an exchange of cuss words, followed by a succession of honks and hollers from the traffic backing up behind the incident.

“Forget it,” I say. “You’ll never make it here in time. I’ll call a cab.”

I do, even though I’d rather stomp up thirteen flights of stairs to give Gertrude a piece of my mind. My car arrives within minutes, expertly navigating through rush hour, skirting along the edge of the Hudson River to Mason’s private airstrip, with just under five minutes to spare.

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?”

Mason chuckles. “You say the strangest things, Miss Landers.”

He pops open the door and climbs out of the helicopter. I wait for him to come around to my side, and take his hand, stepping out onto the perfect grass. My heels sink into the ground. I slip them off and curl my toes into the field, wondering briefly how many people ever get the chance to do this.

“Walk with me,” Mason says, eyeing my bare feet with twinkling eyes. He’s getting a kick out of this, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m having the most fun of my life. Now that the fear of flight has abated, and even looking forward to the trip back.

We hold hands, circling the perimeter of the field until we reach one of the goal posts. A picnic basket rests between the poles, a green and white blanket draped beside it on the grass. Mason squeezes my hand. “Hungry?”

Speechless, I nod.

Mason lays the blanket down, and opens the wicker basket. A bottle of champagne chills at the center in a bucket of ice wrapped in a checkerboard tablecloth. I sit next to him, tucking my legs to the side. Mason pulls out two glasses, sets them on the ground, and then lifts the bottle for my inspection, turning it slightly so I can read the label. Dom Perignon. “Nothing but the best for you,” he says, smiling.

My stomach flutters. “You arranged all of this?”

“I may have had a little help.” He licks his lips. “There is an assortment of cheeses in here…” He digs in the basket. “My receptionist assured me that you would enjoy this.” He holds out a chunk of what looks like fudge and grimaces. “Chocolate cheese, which sounds strange, but I figured she’d know.”

I clear my throat. “What is your receptionist’s name?”

He tilts his head. “Misty, of course.”

I choke out a half cough-half laugh. “That was one of my guesses.” It’s the perfect chance to out her for this morning’s stunt, but I’m reluctant to ruin the moment. I eye the champagne. “Are we celebrating something?”

Mason pops the cork, pours us each a glass. “It’s a big day on the stock market.”

“It is.”

Instead of elaborating, he lifts his flute as if in salute. We clink glasses, and he takes a sip, then gestures to the field with a head nudge. “So, what do you think?”

I swallow a sip of the bubbling elixir, shivering as it tickles down my throat. “It’s big.”

“Football fields tend to be,” he says, winking. A boyish grin lights up his face, making his eyes twinkle like stars. I could get lost in that constellation. “You think you could become a fan?”

I shove my hand up in the air, my head slightly fuzzy after the exhilarating helicopter ride, coupled with mid-morning champagne. “Hell, yes!”

He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “Very convincing. I suspect you’d fill out a cheerleader uniform very nicely.”

I duck my head, snorting with laughter. “Clearly, you’ve never seen me dance.” I thread my fingers through his. “Seriously though, what’s going on? Is Daylight Holdings buying season tickets?”

I’m not a big football fan, but I can see the allure of watching a game up close. I imagine the bleachers filled with fans, green and white jerseys blowing in the breeze. The popcorn, the beer, the rush of adrenaline. Yeah. I could get into it.

“Not exactly,” he says, grinning. “I’ve purchased the team.”