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,...