Page 8 of Mile High Daddy

“I don’t even know you,” I say weakly.

“You know enough,” he counters, and the way he says it makes me feel like he’s the one in control—not just of this moment, but of me.

My instincts scream at me to walk away, but my body seems to have other ideas.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Against my better judgment, I trail behind Mikhail as we make our way through the terminal. My brain is screaming at me to rethink this decision—who agrees to ride four hours with a stranger? But my feet keep moving, following his confident strides like I don’t have a choice in the matter.

When we reach the baggage claim, I step toward the carousel to grab my suitcase, but Mikhail stops beside me, his hand resting lightly on my arm.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says.

Before I can argue, the massive, beefy man from our flight (whose seat I stole, apparently) steps forward like he’s been summoned by some invisible signal. Without a word, he snatches my suitcase off the belt and hefts it like it weighs nothing.

“Uh, thanks?” I say, blinking at the sheer size of the man. He looks like he could bench-press the carousel itself.

Mikhail chuckles, the sound low and amused.

“Is he your bodyguard or something?” I ask, only half joking.

“Something like that,” Mikhail replies, his smirk firmly in place.

The beefy man gestures for us to follow, and we step outside into the brisk air. A sleek, black luxury car—no, scratch that,a fortress on wheels—is parked at the curb, gleaming under the airport lights.

“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “We’re going in that?”

Mikhail glances over his shoulder at me, one brow raised. “Of course.”

Of course. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The car is massive, all tinted windows and sharp lines, the kind of vehicle that screamsuntouchable. The driver stands by the door, holding it open like we’re royalty.

Mikhail gestures for me to step in first, and I hesitate, my brain scrambling to process what’s happening. I’ve been on school buses more luxurious than the car I drive, and now I’m about to climb into something that probably costs more than my entire life.

“Go ahead,kiska,” he says, his tone both commanding and impossibly smooth.

I slide into the back seat, trying to look like I belong there, but the buttery leather and spacious interior make it abundantly clear that I don’t.

I can’t stop myself from sneaking a glance at him.

“How richareyou?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He turns to me, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Rich enough.”

“That’s not an answer,” I counter, though my voice lacks conviction.

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he says, leaning back in his seat, his gaze flicking to me briefly before settling on the window.

I bite my lip, staring out the opposite window, trying to piece together the puzzle that is Mikhail. He’s clearly wealthy—ridiculously wealthy. And the way that man from the plane responded to him? Yeah, there’s more to him than he’s letting on.

“What do you do for work?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

His eyes slide back to me, and for a moment, I swear I see something dark flicker there, something he doesn’t want me to see. “Business,” he says simply.

“Business,” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

“And you? What do you do, Lila?”

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