Mile High Daddy: Chapter 2

I do 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—anything else—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.

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 lifts off, 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.

The attendant glides down the aisle, her practiced smile firmly in place as she refills glasses and jots down orders. Mikhail’s attention shifts from his phone to her as she nears, his voice smooth and commanding. “Another glass of the Château Margaux, please.”

I glance at the deep red wine in his glass, intrigued. “Is it good?”

He tilts the glass slightly, the liquid catching the light. “It’s excellent. You should try it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Wine and nerves don’t always mix well.”

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “I promise, this will relax you more than that water ever could.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “All right. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” I gesture toward Mikhail’s glass. “I’ll have one of those, please.”

She hesitates, her eyes flicking between me and Mikhail, before she says, “I’m afraid we’re all out of the Château Margaux.”

The lie is so transparent I can practically see through it. I ignore the slight smirk on her face. I’m not sure why she hates me. Just because I’m sitting next to a hot guy? That’s really shallow. But before I can protest, Mikhail picks up his glass and hands it to me. “Have mine.”

I blink at him. “What? No, I can’t⁠—”

“You can,” he interrupts, his voice low. His gray eyes lock onto mine, daring me to argue. “I insist.”

I hesitate a little before taking it from him, the stem cool against my fingertips. Mikhail leans back in his seat, watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. I lift the glass to my lips, feeling the heat of his gaze as I take a small sip.

The wine is smooth and rich, warming me from the inside out. But it’s not the taste that lingers—it’s the intimacy of the moment, the way his eyes follow every movement, as if he’s savoring the experience just as much as I am.

“Well?” he asks, his voice barely above a murmur.

“It’s…amazing,” I admit, my voice softer than I intended.

“Good.” His lips curve into a faint smile, but his gaze remains locked on mine, making me acutely aware of the glass still in my hand.

I swallow, trying to find something—anything—to break the tension. “I can see why you like it.”

“I’m glad you took mine,” he says, and I can practically feel my pussy clenching. Jesus.

Before I can respond, the plane shudders beneath us. My fingers tighten instinctively around the glass, and Mikhail takes it back, setting it safely on his tray table.

“It’s just turbulence,” he says, his voice calm, but the flicker of concern in his eyes tells me he’s watching closely.

The turbulence worsens, the plane jerking hard enough to elicit startled gasps from the other passengers. The seat belt sign flashes on, and the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, instructing everyone to remain seated.

My hands grip the armrests, my knuckles white as I focus on my breathing. But the turbulence doesn’t ease—it gets worse. A sudden jolt sends a flight attendant stumbling, her tray of drinks crashing to the floor. Overhead compartments creak ominously, and a suitcase tumbles out, narrowly missing a passenger.

The screams start then, sharp and panicked, and my heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.

“Lila.” Mikhail’s voice pulls me back, firm and steady despite the chaos around us. His hand covers mine, grounding me. “Look at me.”

I do, my breathing ragged. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t⁠—”

“Breathe,” he says, his tone unshakable. “You’re safe.”

The plane jolts again, harder this time, and my body tenses. “How can you be so calm?”

“Because panicking won’t help.” His grip tightens slightly, his touch a strange comfort in the chaos. “I’m here. Nothing will happen to you.”

A loud bang echoes through the cabin as another compartment bursts open, scattering bags and coats. More screams fill the air, and I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

“I don’t—I don’t like this,” I manage.

“I know,” he says softly. His free hand moves to my cheek, guiding my gaze back to him. “But I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you understand me?”

The plane bucks again, harder this time, sending a cascade of loose items from the overhead bins onto the floor. A suitcase thuds heavily into the aisle, and someone screams. My heart is racing so fast I’m not sure it’ll survive the next jolt. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire as I grip the armrests, my knuckles white, my breathing shallow.

I’m going to die.

The thought rings in my head like a bell, over and over again, drowning out the chaos around me. My mind starts spiraling, and before I can stop it, a flood of regrets hits me. All the things I’ve never done. The places I’ll never see. The life I thought I had more time to live.

And then it hits me—this big, glaring regret that feels both ridiculous and monumental at the same time.

I’ve never had sex. Never been kissed properly, not in a way that made me feel like the earth moved. Never felt someone’s hands on me in that way, never let myself get lost in another person. I’ve spent my life waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect person, and now I might die without ever knowing what that feels like.

Tears blur my vision, and I press my forehead to the cool leather of the seat in front of me, whispering a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening. The plane shudders again, and I snap upright, words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“I don’t want to die a virgin!”

The cabin is loud with commotion, but the words feel deafening to me. My hands fly to my mouth in horror as I realize I’ve just said that out loud. Out. Loud.

Next to me, Mikhail turns his head slowly, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. His expression is unreadable for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if he heard me correctly.

“What?” he says.

My face is on fire as I stammer, “I—I just…if we crash, I don’t want to die without…you know…”

His lips twitch, and for a second, I think he’s going to laugh. But then he leans closer, his gaze locking onto mine, sharp and assessing. The tension of the moment shifts, morphing into something else entirely.

“You want to lose your virginity before you die?” he asks, his voice low and even, like he’s asking about the weather.

I can’t look at him. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

The plane shudders again, and I flinch, gripping the armrests tighter. Mikhail doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, watching me with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back my layers, one by one.

The turbulence begins to ease, the violent shaking giving way to a gentle hum as the plane stabilizes. The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom, announcing that we’ve cleared the rough air and are now flying smoothly. Around us, passengers murmur in relief, the tension in the cabin slowly dissolving.

But my heart is still pounding, and Mikhail’s gaze hasn’t left mine. He leans back in his seat, his lips curling into that maddeningly knowing smirk.

“That,” he says, his voice quiet but deliberate, “can be arranged, kiska.”