Page 2 of Accidental Mile High Daddy
“Because,” I said, adjusting my posture simply because I felt like Ihadto, “I wasn’t about to let a fully paid-for Amalfi Coast vacation go to waste just because my ex has a cock with no sense of loyalty.”
His hand came up to his mouth as a laugh bubbled out of him, his finger rubbing against his upper lip. “Well. That’s a hell of a reason.”
“I’ve got better ones, but that one gets the point across fastest.”
He smirked and extended a hand toward me. Big, with veins across the back of his palm. Clean nails. A silver—no,platinum—ring on his right index finger, just subtle enough not to screammid-life crisis.“I’m on the Naples flight too. I’m Matt.”
Just that. Nothing I could Google. Just “Matt.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and hesitated for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, strong, not too tight, and not a show of dominance. Justconfident.“Sienna.”
Matt gave me a slow once-over, his eyes flicking down before dragging back up, and for once, it didn’t feelsleazy, didn’t feel like he was trying to strip me with his eyes. It felt more like he was either sizing me up or trying to memorize something about me. “Sienna,” he repeated as if testing my name in his mouth. “Nice to meet you. And apologies, again, for nearly causing your heart to leap out of your chest.”
Christ.I rolled my eyes. “It’s fine,” I said, waving it off. “First time a guy’s ever made me break a glass, though. That’s, like, an accomplishment.”
His lips quirked up at the corner. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Can I get you a replacement, at least?”
I blinked at him. “Are you asking to buy me a drink when the drinks are complimentary?”
“I’m asking if you’d like another one,” he clarified, a smirk breaking out across his cheeks. “And offering to get off my ass and get it for you.”
The skin on my chest suddenly felt slightly too warm for comfort, and I rubbed at it to try to hide the flush creeping up. “Only if you don’t mind me making it weird.”
“Weirder than shattering a champagne flute the moment I say hello?” he teased, pushing up to his feet and smoothing down his shirt.
I leveled a glare at him that had zero heat in it. “Rude.”
He didn’t even react. “Another champagne?”
Squinting at the little board on the bar, I shook my head. “One of those elderflower and gin things.”
He moved with the quiet kind of confidence that didn’t ask for attention but somehow demanded it anyway — broad shoulders, long legs, the roll of muscle beneath his shirt as he crossed the lounge like he belonged to it, or more likely, the other way around.
I shifted in my seat as I tracked him, hyper aware of how short the stupid yellow sundress really was, and watched as he leaned an elbow onto the counter, his posture easy and relaxed. He gestured toward the bartender, all calm and unrehearsed confidence, and I couldn’t help but glare a little. He was annoyingly composed. Probably listened to alpha-male mantras like podcasts. Probably did yoga and stock market investments at the same time on a lazy Tuesday.
It didn’t take him long. Barely two minutes had passed before he was walking back, highball glass in one hand and something delicate in the other, like he somehow trusted I wasn’t going to break something else.
He handed it to me with a little nod. “Yourelderflower and gin thing,” he drawled.
I took it, my fingers just barely brushing against his, and tried not to think about what that did to me as I glanced down at the glass instead. It tasted exactly like what I needed to get through this conversation and however long it would take to actually get on board and lock myself in my private seat.
“So,” he said, sinking back into his seat with his glass of amber liquid in hand. “Flying solo on a couple's trip. That’s bold.”
“I didn’t say it was a couple's trip,” I shot back over the rim of my glass.
He shrugged. “You said Amalfi. You saidex. And I’m pretty sure you said you kept the vacation, so I made a logical leap.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and dodged the conversation entirely. “You heading to Italy for business or pleasure?” I hated the word as soon as it came out.Pleasure.
His head tilted left and right, weighing it up. “Bit of both. Mostly business,” he said, leaning forward a little and dropping his voice before continuing, “but I won’t lie and say I don’t enjoy the pleasure part more.”
I snorted into my glass. “Christ.” The confidence in him was annoyingly overwhelming. Not arrogance, though he was definitely cocky, but he moved and spoke like he’d earned the right to say what he wanted. Like the world had bent enough times for him that he didn’t feel a need to fake it.Subject change. Now. Before he says something else.“So, you’re rich, then?”
He laughed — properly, this time, not hidden behind his hand or muffled. “Why are you asking?”
I shrugged, taking a sip of my drink before setting it downgently. “That’s just the vibe you give off. You’ve got‘I own a yacht and have a mistress in Monaco’energy.”
The grin from his laugh stayed plastered to his cheeks. “I’d argue with that if it wasn’t half true. I don’t have a mistress.”
