7. Sloane
SLOANE
The call comes three days later while I’m standing in my kitchen eating cereal directly from the box because apparently unemployment has stripped me of the last few respectable habits I had left.
My phone vibrates against the counter. I glance at the screen and nearly ignore it because I don’t recognize the number, then remember that private aviation appears to operate entirely through people calling at inconvenient hours and expecting immediate answers.
“Sloane Mercer.”
The woman on the other end introduces herself from the staffing agency and asks whether I’m available for an international assignment tomorrow morning.
My hand stills inside the cereal box. “Yes.”
“You don’t need to check?”
“I’m extremely available.”
There’s a pause that might be amusement. She gives me the reporting time, the airfield, estimated duration, and confirms the rate.
“Is this the same aircraft?”
“I don’t have the final tail assignment in front of me.”
“Same client?”
“I only handle crew placement.”
Of course she does.
I tell myself the question was practical. It’s not as though I’ve spent the last several days wondering whether I will ever see Vadim again.
I have not.
Mostly.
There have simply been unfortunate moments when my mind remembers things without permission. His hand around my waist. The way his eyes dropped to my mouth in the restroom. The fact that he could make a perfectly ordinary sentence sound indecent just by lowering his voice.
None of that means I’m hoping this is his flight.
I need money. That’s the reason I accept.
Nothing else.
By six the next morning, I’m back on a private jet.
Not the same one.
At least, I don’t think it is. The interior is similar enough that for the first few minutes I keep wondering whether rich people simply order aircraft from the same catalog, but the layout is different, the wood darker, the leather a pale gray instead of cream, and there is no rear bedroom.
That’s probably for the best.
The crew is entirely unfamiliar.
The captain introduces himself as Thomas Avery, an American in his forties who speaks to me like a colleague instead of something he found behind a bar, which immediately places him several continents above Hale.
The other attendant is Elise Moreau, French, composed, efficient, and blessedly uninterested in interrogating me about my personal life.
Most importantly, Hale is nowhere in sight.
The relief is immediate. I didn’t realize how much tension I’ve carried from the first flight until I step into the cockpit for the crew briefing and see two men who treat me normally.
I breathe easier.
Maybe this really is just another job. Maybe the first flight was a strange combination of circumstances that will never repeat.
I spend the next hour preparing the cabin with Elise. The passenger manifest isn’t available yet because someone on the ground is apparently still finalizing documentation, and I’m too busy to care.
Or I pretend to be.
When the vehicle finally approaches the aircraft, I take my position near the door beside Elise. Two men step out, and my stomach drops before the first one even reaches the stairs.
Marek. I recognize him immediately.
And then Vadim. It’s just the two of them there.
For one second, I forget everything I’ve been telling myself.
He reaches the top of the stairs and sees me. The reaction is small, so small that another person might miss it entirely. His stride doesn’t change. His expression remains controlled. But his eyes stop on me.
There is recognition there, and something warmer beneath it. Something that makes my pulse jump before I can stop it.
“Mr. Chernovar,” I say.
“Sloane.”
Not Miss Mercer. Sloane.
I make myself smile professionally. “Welcome aboard.”
His gaze moves over my face as if checking that I’m actually standing there. Then down briefly. Not enough to be rude, but enough that I notice.
“Thank you.” He walks past.
That’s all.
Marek stops in front of me. His eyebrows rise. “Well.”
I already know I’m going to dislike whatever follows.
“Good morning, Mr. Yudin.”
He smiles. “How fortunate.”
I stare at him, and he continues into the cabin before I can answer.
Wonderful.
So he remembers. That means all of them remember.
I look toward the cabin and find Vadim watching me again. This time, when our eyes meet, there is unmistakable amusement in his face.
I turn away first.
This assignment is going to be a problem.
Actually, I was wrong.
The flight is smooth and uneventful. Elise handles one side of the cabin while I handle the other, and despite the awareness humming constantly beneath my skin, Vadim behaves exactly as a passenger should.
He asks for coffee. I bring it. He thanks me.
I serve lunch. He doesn’t ask for champagne. I wonder if he thinks I’m going to spill on him again. The thought makes me almost smile, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself. I catch him staring at me. But that’s it.
By the third hour, I begin to wonder whether I imagined the entire first flight.
Then, while I’m collecting plates, Vadim reaches for his glass at the same moment I do.
Our fingers touch. Barely.
Nothing more than skin against skin.
Yet both of us stop.
His hand remains there. So does mine.
I look up. He’s already watching me. The cabin around us seems to become quieter despite the fact that Marek is still speaking to Vadim across the table.
Vadim’s thumb shifts once against the side of my finger, so small it could almost be accidental.
I withdraw my hand. “Excuse me.”
His mouth moves slightly. “Of course.”
I take the glass and leave before my face can betray me.
In the galley, Elise glances over. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look warm.”
“The cabin is warm.”
She looks at the thermostat.
It is not.
I pretend not to notice.
The next flight is four days later.
I’m in my apartment when the agency notification appears. Another charter.
I don’t know whether Vadim will be there, and I don’t ask. That feels important somehow.
When I board and see Anton’s jacket already hanging near the forward cabin, I know.
A strange little thrill runs through me before I can stop it.
I hate that.
This time, the destination is Vienna. The crew is different again, and I seem to be the only common factor. I try not to think about that fact.
Vadim boards ten minutes later. His eyes find mine immediately.
“Again,” he says.
I lift one eyebrow. “Private aviation is a very small world.”
“Apparently.”
Marek passes behind him. “Remarkably small.”
Vadim turns his head, but Marek walks away before being addressed.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
The flight is overnight. The cabin lights are dimmed after dinner. Iosef falls asleep with his glasses still on. Anton spends most of the flight reading. Marek disappears into the rear seating area with headphones.
Vadim remains awake.
So do I.
At two in the morning, I’m standing alone in the galley preparing tea when I sense someone behind me.
I turn.
Vadim.
Of course.
“Do you need something?”
“Water.”
“There’s bottled water beside your seat.”
“I know.”
I look at him. He looks back. Neither of us says anything for several seconds.
The galley is not as small as the restroom on the first flight, but it still feels too small with him in it.
I reach for a bottle.
He doesn’t take it when I offer it. Instead, his gaze drops to my hand. Then to my mouth.
My breath changes. I hate that he can probably hear it.
“You have been avoiding me,” he says.
“I’m working.”
“You said that last time.”
“It was true last time too.”
His mouth almost curves.
I hold out the bottle again. He takes it.
Our fingers brush. Again.
This time neither of us pretends it’s accidental.
His hand closes around the bottle. Mine remains beneath it for half a second too long.
He’s closer now. I don’t remember him moving.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That is not nothing.”
“You are the one standing very close.”
“You are the one who came into my galley for water you already had.”
A small smile appears.
There. Finally.
I feel it like a victory.
Then footsteps sound from the cabin, and we separate so quickly it is almost embarrassing.
Elise appears. She looks from me to Vadim, then at the unopened bottle in his hand. “Everything all right?”
“Perfect,” I say.
Vadim looks at me. “Yes.”
He leaves.
I stand there for several seconds afterward with my hands pressed against the counter, wondering exactly what would have happened if Elise had arrived thirty seconds later.
I know.
That’s the problem.