Mile High Daddy: Chapter 1

There’s nothing like the smell of burnt coffee, overpriced perfume, and panic to kick-start your morning. The chaos feels almost personal, like the universe decided to turn one of the busiest airports in the world into my own private obstacle course. My heart pounds in my chest as I dart through the terminal, my carry-on slamming into my legs like it’s trying to trip me.

Goddamn it. It’s my fault. I should’ve known better and not snoozed my last alarm. And now I’m really fricking late.

“Excuse me, sorry—oops, my bad!” I mutter, weaving through an endless sea of luggage and exhausted travelers. A man in a Hawaiian shirt glares at me as if my speedwalking offends him personally. I glance at a clock on the wall. Seven minutes. Seven. If I don’t make this flight, I might as well curl up next to the Hudson News stand and weep into a copy of Us Weekly.

Finally, I skid to a stop at the airline counter, practically tossing my boarding pass onto the desk like it’s a hot potato. The staff member, a polished woman with a bun so tight it could probably hold the plane together, glances at me over her glasses. She doesn’t look impressed.

“You’re late,” she says, her tone as flat as the tile beneath my feet.

“I’m aware,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “But you don’t understand. I have to be on this flight. My entire day—my entire life—depends on it.”

Her fingers click across the keyboard as I wait with bated breath.

After a long, dramatic pause, she sighs and tilts her head at me like I’m a kid who just asked if Santa delivers on Sundays. “Your flight just closed the gate.”

“No,” I whisper, feeling my heart sink to somewhere near my sneakers. “It can’t be. I ran here! I broke at least three laws of physics to get here!”

“Unfortunately, ma’am, physics isn’t part of our boarding policy,” she replies without a flicker of emotion.

I lean on the counter, desperate. “Look, there has to be something you can do. Maybe call the gate? I’ll crawl into the cargo hold if I have to!”

Her lips twitch, almost like she’s fighting a smile. “We don’t recommend the cargo hold. It gets cold down there.”

Great. Not only am I late, but I’m also apparently the comic relief in her otherwise boring shift. “Please. I have to get to New York. If I don’t, my boss will murder me, and you’ll be an accessory to the crime.”

She raises an eyebrow, considering me. “Well, we don’t want that. Give me a moment.”

Her fingers fly across the keyboard again, and I feel my last shred of hope dangling by a thread. I glance around, taking in the chaos of O’Hare—the families with crying babies, the guy pacing while shouting into his Bluetooth, the woman who’s clearly trying to smuggle an emotional support ferret. It’s a circus, and I’m the clown who missed her act.

Finally, the woman speaks. “Good news. We can rebook you on the next flight, and since we’re overbooked in economy, you’ll be upgraded to first class.”

I blink. “First class?”

She nods, almost looking pleased with herself. “Yes. You’ll be departing in two hours. Maybe use the time to relax a little?”

Relax. Sure. Because that’s what people do after their life flashes before their eyes at an airport counter. Still, first class doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe today isn’t a total disaster after all.

I grab my boarding pass with a grateful smile. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

She winks. “Just don’t miss this flight.”

As I walk away, I clutch the boarding pass like it’s a golden ticket.

The next two hours pass in a blur of overpriced snacks and existential dread. I sit at my gate, clutching my carry-on like it holds the meaning of life, trying not to think about the very real possibility that I’ll somehow mess this up again. First class. First freaking class. I’ve never even peeked behind the curtain, let alone sat there.

The announcement to board finally comes, and I make a mental note to walk—not sprint—onto the plane. No need to let everyone know I’m a walking disaster.

When they scan my boarding pass and wave me toward the front of the plane, I feel like I’ve been knighted. The plush seats, the legroom, the flight attendants who smile like they mean it—it’s like stepping into an alternate universe.

I glance at my ticket and locate my aisle seat. Perfect. I slide into it, basking in the luxury of a seat that doesn’t force me into a game of Tetris with my knees. I’m halfway through marveling at the menu—they have real glassware!—when I hear a low, smooth voice beside me.

“Looks like you’re in my seat.”

I glance up and nearly drop the menu.

Standing next to the aisle is him. 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.