Page 4 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“Yes?” I reply, already bracing myself.

She leans in slightly. “If you’d like, we can move you to first class. There’re some open seats.”

I blink at her. “I… sorry, what?”

“You look like you’ve had a day,” she adds, kind in a way that almost undoes me.

And just like that, my irritation softens into gratitude.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

She nods, and I don’t even try to play it cool.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “Yes, I’d love that. I’d actually marry you for this, but I’m currently taking a short break from poor decision-making.”

That gets a small laugh out of her. “Right this way.”

I follow her down the jet bridge, my brain still catching up.

First class, because I got dumped. If this is what rock bottom looks like, it has surprisingly good perks.

The moment I step onto the plane, everything feels different.

Quieter, calmer, slightly intimidating in that expensive way that makes you hyper aware of your own existence.

Definitely not my usual environment.

“Just here,” the attendant says, gesturing toward a seat.

And that’s when I see him.

He’s already there, leaning back like he belongs exactly where he is, which, judging by the way the space seems to orbit around him, he probably does.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Some sort of pilot’s uniform that fits a little too well, like it was designed specifically to make women make bad decisions. Salt and pepper hair, sharp jaw, and blue eyes that are already on me, like he clocked me the second I stepped on board.

Oh, that's unfortunate.

“Your seat,” the attendant says.

Of course it is, because clearly the universe decided today needed a hot older man complication.

“Fantastic,” I murmur, sliding into the seat beside him, smoothing my hair like that’s going to make any difference to this horrific day.

I can feel his gaze.

I try, really try, to ignore it, even as we ascend into the sky at long last, but it definitely isn’t easy. He’s seemingly very intense.

Time blurs after that. Drinks arrive. I say yes to one, then another.

The city disappears beneath clouds, and somewhere between takeoff and cruising altitude, the edge of my anger softens, becoming looser. Reckless. Almost a hysterical sort of joy.

And through it all, he hasn’t stopped watching me.

“Is there a reason you’re staring at me?” I finally say, turning toward him, “Or is that a pilot thing?”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You look like you’ve had an eventful day. It’s my duty to be concerned.”

So he admits it. Pilot.