Page 3 of Mile High Daddy

I nod, swallowing hard. “Not a big fan of flying.”

“Just breathe,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “It’s safer than driving. You’ll be fine.”

It’s a simple reassurance, but something about the way he says it—calm, confident, like he’s in control of the entire situation—makes me believe him. I focus on my breathing as the plane liftsoff, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel the need to close my eyes and pray.

As the plane levels out, I realize his hand is still on my arm. I look at him, and he raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I mutter, trying to ignore the way my skin feels like it’s buzzing where he touched me.

He leans back in his seat, sipping his whiskey and watching me with a gaze that feels far too knowing. I can’t decide if I want to thank him again or tell him to stop staring. I’m not sure if it’s the altitude or the man beside me, but my pulse hasn’t slowed since takeoff.

Mikhail sits with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s in control of his world—or any world, really. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out how to recline my seat without breaking it.

I glance out the window, hoping the sight of fluffy clouds will be a good distraction, but my gaze keeps drifting back to him. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, completely at ease, and I can’t help but notice how his suit jacket fits across his shoulders. Broad shoulders. Ridiculously broad shoulders. I force my attention back to the untouched glass of sparkling water in front of me.

“You’re staring,kiska.”

His voice pulls me out of my thoughts, smooth and laced with amusement. I turn toward him, my face burning.

“No, I wasn’t,” I protest quickly, which only makes his smirk deepen.

“You were,” he counters, setting his phone down and fixing me with that sharp, assessing gaze. “Something on your mind?”

Yes. You.But I’m not saying that.

“Nope, nothing at all,” I reply, trying to sound casual.

He leans closer, the scent of whiskey and something darker, richer, filling the space between us. “Do I make you nervous, Lila?”

I swallow hard. “I think the plane already covered that.”

He chuckles, low and deep, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not fair that someone can be this attractive and know it.

“Relax,” he says, leaning back again. “I don’t bite. Not unless asked.”

I choke on my sparkling water, coughing so hard the flight attendant rushes over to check on me. I wave her off, my face now probably the color of a stop sign, while Mikhail watches me with open amusement.

“You’re terrible,” I mutter under my breath once the flight attendant leaves.

“Terrible?” He tilts his head, pretending to be offended. “I was simply offering reassurance.”

“Sure you were.”

The smirk returns, and I wonder if it’s possible to simultaneously want to punch someone and kiss them. Probably not healthy, but here we are.

As I attempt to focus on the in-flight magazine—because that’s less dangerous than looking at him—the plane jolts, the turbulence catching me off guard. My fingers clamp around the armrests, and I suck in a sharp breath.

“Easy,” he says, his voice soothing again. His hand settles over mine this time, his touch warm and steady. “It’s just a little turbulence.”

I glance at him, trying not to let my panic show, but I must fail because he leans closer. “Breathe, Lila. You’re safe.”

His words shouldn’t help as much as they do, but I find myself nodding, inhaling deeply. The turbulence passes quickly, but his hand stays over mine longer than necessary.

When he finally pulls back, I feel strangely untethered, like I’ve lost an anchor I didn’t realize I needed.

“Thank you,” I say softly, and he nods, his expression unreadable for once.

---