Page 4 of Mile High Ruin

“He values it more than most.”

There’s something in her voice that makes me stop what I’m doing.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you don’t discuss anything you see or hear on this aircraft. Not with the ground crew, not with the agency, not with friends. You don’t ask where they’re going after we land. You don’t comment on the people who meet them. You never touch their documents, phones, or luggage unless you are specifically asked.”

“I don’t search passengers’ belongings as a hobby.”

“I’m not questioning your professionalism.”

“It sounds a little like you are.”

“I’m telling you that these men are powerful enough that mistakes don’t become amusing stories later.” Her eyes hold mine.

I can tell she expects nervous questions. I don’t give her any.

“Understood.”

She nods once. The answer is enough for her.

I turn back toward the cabin and complete another inspection. The glasses are spotless. The champagne is chilled. The linen is secured. The fruit platter is covered and refrigerated. The coffee machine is ready. The emergency equipment has already been checked twice.

My personal bag sits beside the galley wall, tucked out of the aisle. I placed it there when I arrived because Camille immediately handed me a list of tasks. I mean to store it in the crew compartment before departure.

The cockpit door opens again, and Warren steps out, adjusting the cuffs of his uniform.

“They’re coming through the gate,” Camille says.

The change in him is immediate. His shoulders straighten. The lazy grin disappears. He looks through the window toward the tarmac, then smooths a hand over his tie. For all his confidence around women he believes cannot affect his career, he appears remarkably nervous about the men approaching the aircraft.

Camille moves toward the entrance. I position myself several feet behind her, close enough to assist but far enough to give the passengers room.

Warren remains near the cockpit. His gaze flicks toward me. “Remember to smile.”

I turn my head slowly. “I know how to greet passengers.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“Then you can help by giving me room.”

He doesn’t move. His arm brushes mine, and when I step slightly to the side, he follows as though the movement is an invitation rather than the opposite.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs.

“I’m working.”

“You might enjoy yourself more if you relaxed.”

His hand settles against the counter behind me, boxing me into the narrow space between his body and the galley wall. He’s careful not to touch me directly. Men like Warren are often careful about that. They know exactly how close they can stand while leaving themselves room to claim innocence.

I turn my head and look at him. “Move.”

The word is quiet.

So is his laugh. “You don’t have to be so fierce, sweetheart.” His gaze drops to my blouse, slow enough to make my skin crawl. “I could make your first private flight a lot easier.”

Movement appears beyond his shoulder. Camille straightens near the entrance, but Warren is still looking at me, too occupied with his own performance to notice the first passenger boarding.