High altitude

Nathaniel Coop didn’t say hello. He didn’t even acknowledge that a human being had just stepped onto his helipad. Instead, he gave me a slow once-over. His eyes traveled from my wind-blown hair down to my scuffed flats and back up again. It didn't look like he was impressed with what he saw.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and climbed into the cabin.

"Quickly now, we’re behind schedule," the secretary said, nudging my shoulder.

She ushered me inside the aircraft. I had expected a cramped helicopter, but this was a high-end transport. It was spacious, with cream-colored leather seats that looked more comfortable than my bed and enough room for a small party. There were four of us: Nathaniel, the secretary, the pilot up front, and me.

As soon as I was seated, the secretary handed Nathaniel a slim, white laptop. He took it without looking at her and immediately began typing. The door sealed shut, the roar of the blades muffled to a low hum, and we lifted off.

I sat across from him, trying to keep my breathing steady. Up close, Mr. Coop was even more intimidating. He was young, but he carried himself with the weight of someone who had lived twice that long. His jawline was sharp and his hair was perfectly styled despite the wind on the roof.

I found myself watching his hands as he typed. They were strong, capable hands with clean, trimmed nails. A sudden, unexpected heat unfurled in my stomach. It was a traitorous feeling because although, he was exactly my type he was completely out of reach.

I could see the headlines: Poor intern falls for her bossy CEO. It was a classic cliché, and I hated myself for a second for being so predictable.

The secretary, whose name tag read Ms. Davies, poured a glass of chilled white wine from a small built-in bar and placed it on the folding table next to Mr. Coop. He didn't say thank you. He didn't even pause his typing. He just reached out, took a sip, and kept working.

Such a jerk.

"The flight to our connection in California will take about five and a half hours," Ms. Davies said, noticing me watching. "From there, we switch to the long-range jet for the Pacific leg of the trip. You’ll find snacks and water in the side compartment."

"Thank you," I said, my voice sounding small in the quiet cabin. I looked at the back of Nathaniel’s laptop. "Is he always this... focused?"

Ms. Davies gave me a tight, professional smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Coop values time above all else. I suggest you use this time to review the dialect notes in that folder."

She handed me a thin leather binder and then returned to her own tablet.

I leaned back against the leather seat, but I couldn't focus on the notes. My mind drifted back to my father's call. He was expecting that money. By now, he’d be checking his account, seeing the balance hadn't changed, and his temper would be simmering.

If I disappeared for three days without a word, he wouldn't be worried about my safety. He would be furious about his lost "income." The thought of the voicemails I’d find when I turned my phone back on made my chest tighten. I was a grown woman, yet I was still terrified of a man sitting in a darkened living room hundreds of miles away.

I tried to shake the feeling. I looked out the window as the New York skyline faded into a patchwork of green and brown. The steady vibration of the engine began to act like a lullaby. Between the stress of the morning and the sheer absurdity of being in Nathaniel Coop’s private space, my eyelids began to feel like lead.

My mind started to fill with a messy blur of my father shouting and breaking things. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, I told myself. Just a minute.

________

A sharp, jarring pain shot through my foot.

I jolted awake, my heart leaping into my throat. My breath hitched as I realized where I was. I looked down and saw my feet had slipped forward during my nap, moving into the space across from me.

Then I looked up.

Nathaniel Coop was standing directly over me. He had moved from his seat and was looming so close I could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and expensive wine. His shadow completely covered me, making the cabin feel suddenly very small.

He was looking down at me with an expression that was difficult to read, but it definitely contained barely hidden distaste. His foot was still pulled back from where he had just kicked mine to wake me up.

"You were sleeping," he said accusatorily. "How can you sleep on an official flight? Do you think I brought you here to sleep?"

I nearly scoffed in disbelief. Was I supposed to stay awake for a five-hour flight? I wasn't his security guard.

"You kicked me, sir," I said. I tried to keep my voice calm, but my heart was still racing.

Finally, some other emotion showed up on his face: bewilderment. He probably had expected me to cower at his glare and harsh tone.

"I did," he responded, also calmly, as if he was wondering where this was going.

"Aren't you going to offer an apology? It was painful, you see... sir," I said. I tacked the "sir" on like an afterthought, keeping my face as blank as his.

He just stared at me. He looked like he had never heard the word "apology" before in his entire life.

I was about to say something more when the pilot announced our arrival at the first drop-off in California. Mr. Coop gave me one last look that said this conversation wasn't over, then he turned and prepared to exit.

All that was going through my mind was that his deep voice was as glorious as I had imagined.