Page 2 of Mile High Daddy

Standing next to the aisle ishim. And by him, I mean the most devastatingly gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life.He’s older—easily in his forties, maybe even his fifties—but there’s nothing soft or aging about him.

His hair is dark but streaked with silver at the temples, a contrast that only makes him look more powerful. He’s clean-shaven, his jaw sharp, his cheekbones cut from stone. His features are striking, almost severe, but the fine lines around his eyes and mouth don’t soften him. If anything, they make him look even more intimidating—like a man who’s seen everything, done everything, and hasn’t been impressed by much. His piercing gray eyes are studying me with a faint hint of amusement, and I suddenly forget how to function.

“Oh. Hi. Yes. Hello,” I stammer, inwardly cringing at the verbal train wreck.

His lips twitch in what might be a smirk. “Hello.” He checks his boarding pass. “Pretty sure.”

Oh my God. Did the lady at the counter send me here as a practical joke? Is she laughing at me right now? Then why didn’t the guy checking the passes at the gate say anything? They’re probably all in on it.

“I guess you have the window,” Hottest-Guy-I’ve-Ever-Seen says.

I blink. Of course there is a rational explanation to this confusion, after all.

A flight attendant comes by, her brows furrowed. When her eyes land on me, she gives a snooty sniff. “Is there a problem here, sir?”

“Not at all,” the guy says smoothly, and I can practically see the flight attendant swoon. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Is she in your seat?” she asks, turning to glare at me. No points for guessing that she doesn’t like me. And I don’t understand why. In my sweatpants and oversized tee, I’m not exactly a threat.

“No, I was just—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“Can I see your boarding pass, ma’am?”

“Sure,” I say, handing it over to her. At this point, I would rather she move me somewhere else. The last thing I want is to be mortified in front of Adonis on Earth.

“You’re in the next row,” she says. The look on her face tells me she can’t believe someone like me ended up in first class.

“Actually,” Adonis on Earth says. “That seat can be taken by my associate.”

He gestures to a tall, beefy guy standing at his back. At his cue, he slides into my designated seat. He turns to me. “And you, sweetheart, can you scoot for me please?”

I feel myself getting wet. I don’t even know this guy’s name, but I’m already wet for him. God help me.

2

LILA

Ido as he says, partly because I’m still numb from everything that just happened, and partly because the flight attendant is still glaring at me. She probably would rather be seated here next to him.

I force myself to focus on something else—anythingelse—but it’s impossible to ignore his presence. He’s just…there, radiating this cool, quiet confidence that makes me feel like a nervous rabbit in a field full of wolves.

“I’m Lila,” I say finally, because silence feels worse than my awkwardness.

“Mikhail,” he replies, his accent faint but unmistakably Russian. The way his name rolls off his tongue sends a shiver down my spine.

Of course he has a voice that sounds like sin and silk. His jaw is sharp, his features strong and chiseled, but there’s nothing pretty about him. He’s the kind of man who looks like he was made for war, not comfort.

I swallow hard and nod toward the menu in my lap. “So, uh, pretty fancy, huh? First class?”

His smirk deepens. “It has its perks.”

I have no idea what to say to that, so I bury my face in the menu like it holds the answers to life’s great mysteries. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him settle into his seat, every movement smooth and deliberate. He’s clearly used to this kind of luxury, while I’m one turbulence jolt away from spilling my free champagne all over him.

Before the flight takes off, the flight attendant comes by with towels. I press one to my forehead, sinking into my seat. I could get used to this kind of luxury—except I can’t actually with my kindergarten teacher salary. I could have had this life once, if Mom hadn’t rejected that life years ago. But I don’t want to dwell on that right now.

As the plane begins to taxi, I grip the armrests a little tighter. Flying isn’t my favorite thing, and my earlier sprint through O’Hare didn’t exactly help my nerves. I feel a warm hand on my arm, and I glance over to find Mikhail watching me, his gaze steady and calm.

“You’re nervous,” he says, not unkindly.

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