Page 11 of Accidental Mile High Daddy
Every meeting. Every spreadsheet. Every finely tuned, billion-dollar decision I’d made since stepping off that plane in Italy and hopping on the next flight back to Atlanta had carried the scent of her or the image of that fucking yellow sundress in the back of my mind.
Her laugh, sharp and unfiltered. Her mouth, and the way she’d kissed me like she was starving after the first time, when she’d relaxed into it. Her legs, bare and tangled around my waist, her foot digging into my ass to pull me flush against her in a conjoined suite tens of thousands of feet above sea level.
I couldn’t shake her. Wasn’t sure if I evenwantedto.
I told myself it was about the mystery and the fact that she’d had the guts to walk away without a goodbye or trying to get my number. Women didn’t do that, not with me — they lingered, theyschemed, they left lingerie in my luggage and excuses to “accidentally” meet again.
But Sienna had ghosted me like she’d trained for it.
I sat behind the polished black walnut desk in my office at StrathOne Air headquarters, one hand clenched around a glass of whiskey I wasn’t drinking. Floor-to-ceiling windows framedthe Atlanta skyline, gold, and pink and orange bleeding through the glass as the sun was setting, but most of the employees had already left for the day. I’d barely heard a word of my briefings on the Southeast Asia rollout earlier.
I just kept seeing her. The way she’d looked at me before the partition had gone up, that little smirk when she said something she knew would land well, the sliver of heat behind her eyes.
She wasn’t supposed to linger in my head. But the best ones usually did — though, strangely, not for this long.
So, of course, I broke a rule.
Just a small one. A line easily erased, justified if I tried hard enough. I gave myself a bullshit excuse as I opened the manifest for Flight 417, ATL to NAP, knowing damn well what I was doing and not caring. I skimmed until I found first-class. My name stood out first,Matthew Strathmore - 2A.
But just above mine, in 1A:Sienna James.
Full name. No more mystery. Just four syllables and punch to my chest.
James.
James, James…
Why did that sound familiar?
I clicked into it, checking the original ticket holder name, pre-reservation changes.
Passenger: Ryan Strathmore.
I stilled.
Blinked.
No.
No goddamn way.
I clicked again, into the original booking receipts. Ryan’s name filled the slot for 2A, my seat — refunded and cancelled two days before the flight. I couldn’t breathe.
I scrolled down, looking for the card made to book the reservation, and there in bold lettering and asterisk were the last four digits of his fucking maintenance account.
The emergency fund I fed money into every time Ryan criedbrokeand begged like a petulant teenager.
My jaw clenched so hard I felt it in the back of my skull.
I’d paid for that flight. I’d paid for the ticket that landedhernext to me, and the reasonSienna Jamesitched at the very back of my memory became clear. That single time, almost a year ago now, that I’d cared enough to ask him what was going on in his life and he’d said her name.
His ex. The ex that, according to Sienna, he’d cheated on.
I’d heard bits and pieces of the story when Ryan had left, and he’d called to ask for money. Details I hadn’t asked for but had gotten anyway—dumped her, he’d said.Clingy. Emotional. Dramatic. Desperate. Got “weird” when he slept with someone else after their breakup.
But that wasn’t true, was it?
Nothing ever was with him.
