Page 26 of Mile High Ruin

It doesn’t.

His gaze rests on me for a moment. “Coffee.”

“Of course.”

Nothing else.

I take the cup and leave.

That becomes the extent of our interaction for the remainder of the flight, which should make things easier, except somehow avoiding Vadim requires almost as much awareness of him as speaking to him.

Every time I enter the cabin, I know where he is before I look. Every time I hear his voice, something in me tightens before I can stop it. He doesn’t call me over again, doesn’t ask for anything beyond the occasional drink, and makes no reference to the restroom, the wine, the kiss that went considerably further than either of us had any business allowing before common sense finally caught up with us.

By the time we begin our descent, I have almost convinced myself that I imagined most of the tension.

Almost.

The landing is smooth, the kind of landing that makes the cabin feel briefly suspended before the wheels settle completely onto the runway, and within minutes Camille and I are moving through the familiar rhythm of arrival, collecting glasses, checking the cabin, securing everything that needs to be secured before the passengers disembark.

I don’t look at Vadim until I have to.

He stands near the door with Marek and Anton while I wait beside Camille. His coat is back on, his expression composed, and whatever passed between us several hours ago has disappeared so thoroughly that I begin to wonder whether men like him simply know how to shut things off when they stop being useful.

Marek says something to him quietly. Vadim answers. Then his gaze shifts to me.

For one second, neither of us moves.

There is no smile. No acknowledgment of what almost happened. Only that strange, steady look that makes me feel as though he can see considerably more than I want him to.

“Miss Mercer,” he says.

“Mr. Chernovar.”

That’s it. He walks down the stairs and disappears into the waiting vehicles with his men.

I remain by the door for several seconds longer than necessary.

Camille notices. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking at the ground crew.”

“The ground crew is in the opposite direction.”

I turn toward her. “Do you enjoy this?”

“A little.”

I give her a look and go back inside.

The aircraft feels different after he leaves. Quieter. Larger somehow. Less charged.

I should be relieved. Instead, I feel something absurdly close to disappointment, which is ridiculous. I have known Vadim Chernovar for one flight.

One.