Page 33 of Mile High Ex's Dad
Before I can answer, he says, “Bring her water.”
I blink at him.
The flight attendant nods and moves on as if this sort of thing happens all the time.
I should object. I should bristle. Tell him I can order my own drink, thanks very much.
Instead I just look at him. “You do that often?” I ask.
“What?”
“Order for strangers.”
“You’re not drinking on your first flight while already nervous.”
“And that’s because…”
He tilts his head. “Because you’re wound tight enough to snap, and alcohol would make it worse.”
I stare at him.
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“That’s annoyingly perceptive,” I mutter.
“I’ve been called worse.”
I believe that immediately.
The water arrives. So does his whiskey. He thanks the attendant without really looking at her and waits until she leaves before turning back to me. “Tell me your name.”
I hesitate. I’m not sure why. Maybe because names make things real. Maybe because the chemistry between us already feels too charged for two people who have exchanged exactly one boarding-pass disaster and half a dozen sentences.
Still, I say, “Sienna.”
His gaze lingers on my mouth when I speak. “Sienna.”
The way he says it makes it sound darker. Richer. Like something he might bite into.
I grip the bottle of water a little tighter. “And you are?”
He takes a sip of whiskey, then says, “Viktor.”
Of course he is.
There’s something about the name that suits him too well. Solid. Old-world. Masculine in a way that doesn’t need decoration.
“It fits you,” I say before I can stop myself.
His mouth curves again. “Does it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I should not answer that, but I do anyway.
“It sounds like someone who gets what he wants.”
