I send a quick round of texts before boarding.
To Brianna:Remember to call me if you need anything. Love you, Piglet.
To Maggie:Plane’s here. I’ll check in once we land in Singapore. Thanks, Mags.
To Henson and Griffin:Boarding now. Keep an eye out at the house. Appreciate it.
When I climb the steps into the cabin, my eyes scan the rows automatically, not for my seat, but forher. Mya isn’t here yet.
Disappointment settles in my chest, enough to irritate me. I brush it off. The last thing I need is to start my week-long trip with that particular feeling.
I sit in a leather seat near the front, rolling my shoulders back. I’ve already decided: no more pursuing her. Whatever the hell I feel when Mya looks at me—heat, hunger, that magnetic pull that makes me act reckless—it has to end. I don’t beg. I don’t chase women.
And if the whispers and headlines want to keep painting me as the blue collar playboy, so be it. I know who I am, and I know what I’m not. It gnaws at me sometimes, the idea that my daughter might one day believe the tabloids over the man who raised her, but that’s my cross to bear.
I’ll just have to figure out another way to convince the judge that I’m suitable to continue being Brianna’s full-time parent.
I drag in a breath, grip the armrest, and close my eyes for a moment.
Her perfume hits me before I see her.
When I open my eyes, Mya is stepping onto the plane, curves wrapped in a business-casual outfit. My pulse betrays me instantly.
Her gaze doesn’t land on me once. Not even a glance. She passes by, the faintest brush of air following her, and keeps walking until she’s at the very back of the plane.
My jaw locks.
So that’s how it’s going to be.
I flag down the flight attendant with a clipped gesture. “Scotch. Neat. Make it a double.”
She nods quickly, disappearing down the aisle, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. By the time the attendant sets the glass down on the tray beside me, my patience has already worn thin. I knock it back in one go, the liquor scorching a path down my throat.
The burn should ground me. It doesn’t.
I pull out my phone, pretending to scroll through contracts, emails, zoning updates—anything to keep me focused. My thumb moves, but my brain doesn’t register a single word. Instead, I’m straining to hear something else.
Her voice. Her laugh.
There’s nothing.
Mya’s silence irritates me more than it should. With a scowl, I tilt my head slightly, just enough to look over my shoulder.
She’s all the way at the back, tucked into an aisle seat like she’s trying to disappear. Her knuckles are white around the armrests, chest rising and falling fast. The fear written across her face is obvious.
For all her bravado, Mya is terrified of flying.
And I hate how much I want to get up, go back there and comfort her.
I debate it for all of ten seconds. Then I’m on my feet, striding down the aisle before I can talk myself out of it.
Mya doesn’t look at me when I stop beside her row, just keeps her wide eyes locked on the seatback in front of her like it might save her life.
“What’s wrong?”
No answer.
I lean closer. “Are you scared?”