Page 25 of Mile High Ruin

Anton returns with the suitcase and places it near the bedroom door.

I stand.

Marek looks at the fading stain once more. “She truly did excellent work.”

I walk past him without answering.

Behind me, I hear Iosef say quietly, “You should stop.”

Marek replies, “I will when he stops looking toward the galley.”

I don’t turn around.

Mostly because he’s right.

5

SLOANE

By the time we are two hours from landing, I’ve replayed the scene in the restroom in my head so many times that I would happily open the emergency exit and throw myself into the Atlantic if cabin pressure were not such an inconvenience.

I kissed him back.

That’s the problem.

Not that Vadim kissed me. Not even that he put his hands on me in a restroom barely large enough for one person and made me forget every intelligent thought I have ever had.

I kissed him back. Enthusiastically.

There is no version of what happened where I can pretend I froze or got swept up for three unfortunate seconds. My hands went into his hair. I pulled him closer. I let him kiss my neck and touch me until I was practically trembling against him like a woman in a terrible romance novel who has misplaced all sense of professional judgment.

Then, because the universe clearly felt I had not embarrassed myself enough, Captain Hale was standing outside when we came out. The memory makes heat climb up my neck all over again.

I focus on stacking clean glasses in the galley.

Camille has asked me twice whether I’m all right. The first time, I told her I was fine. The second time, I gave her a look that apparently convinced her not to ask a third.

Vadim has not approached me again. I’m grateful.

I’m also, irritatingly, aware of exactly where he is at all times. Every time his voice carries from the main cabin, my spine straightens before I can stop it. Every time one of the men laughs, I wonder whether they’re discussing what happened in the restroom, although logically I know they can’t possibly know the details.

Marek—at least I think that’s his name from the roster—probably knows enough. The man looked at Vadim’s half-cleaned shirt when we came back and smiled like somebody had just handed him a private joke that would keep him entertained for years.

I avoid all four of them as much as my job allows. Camille handles most of the service, and when I do have to enter the cabin, I make sure my attention remains on what I’m doing. Water. Coffee. Plates. Linen.

Never Vadim.

This works surprisingly well for almost an hour. Then I feel his eyes on me while I’m collecting a glass from the table.

I refuse to look up.

“Miss Mercer.”

Damn him.

I turn with a professional smile that feels glued to my face. “Yes, Mr. Chernovar?”

He has changed into a dark shirt and fresh trousers. The white shirt I stained is gone, which should make it easier not to remember my hands pressed against his chest.