The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(54)

Well, that was just fucking great.

“Ah.” I shrug, embarrassed. “Daniel’s a bit protective.”

“And has a death wish,” Elliot mutters dryly. His attention goes to out the window.

We sit in silence as we drive along for a while. Elliot’s thoughts are on God knows what and I’m plotting ways to cut out Daniel’s tongue.

God . . . what next?

Elliot had already told me this morning that he didn’t like Daniel touching me.

Imagine what’s going to happen next time they see each other . . . And they obviously will, I live with one and am sleeping with the other.

And where the heck is this coming from? Daniel was excited for me when Elliot was chasing me. Now it’s suddenly a bad idea?

Ugh, this is a fucking disaster.

We arrive at Heathrow Airport but instead of going to the main entrance, we continue to a side street and are stopped at a checkpoint barrier.

Andrew passes out some kind of paperwork to the security guard through the window and the guard takes it back to his little station and checks it.

Elliot is silent and broody and I know Daniel has pissed him off.

It’s not my fault.

If it’s any consolation, Daniel pissed me off too.

I don’t want to say anything that Andrew might hear so I remain silent. We are ushered through the barrier and moments later are driving along a road that seems to connect to a tarmac.

I want to ask what we’re doing, but I don’t want to sound stupid. The car drives for what seems like miles and then we pull up next to a fancy-looking plane.

The car stops and Andrew gets out.

My eyes widen as I stare at the plane: it’s big and lush and looks like a jet. “This is your plane?”

“This is a Miles plane, yes.”

“How many planes do you have?”

“Three.”

“Oh . . .” I feel my stomach flutter with nerves; what do you even say to that?

It’s easy to forget that my sweet garbologist Ed is a Miles.

I mean, I know it is . . . but . . . he really doesn’t seem like the same person.

Fear runs through me—what if he isn’t?

My thoughts are interrupted as Elliot opens the car door and holds his hand out for me. “Come.”

I take his hand and climb out of the car; it’s windy and my hair blows up in the air.

The plane’s engine is noisy. Elliot leads me to the stairs and a fancy-looking stewardess and a pilot in full uniform are standing at the top.

“Good to see you, Mr. Miles,” the pilot says.

Elliot shakes both of their hands. “Thank you.”

The stewardess smiles and her eyes hold Elliot’s a little longer than needed . . . He puts his arm around my waist in a clear signal.

Hmm . . . who’s she?

He leads me through and past them . . . so no introduction of me?

I wither a little, feeling insignificant.

It’s a weird setup, no aisle. Cream leather seats in sets of two and a large room at the back—the doors are closed so I can’t see what’s in there.

One huge television is on display in a lounge area.

He opens the overhead. “You can put your handbag up here.”

“Okay.” I reach up to put it in and his hands drop to my hips as he takes it from me and places it above.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He gestures to a seat by the window and I sink into it; he sits in the one beside me.

I feel awkward; I just got on a plane where the pilot and stewardess addressed him by name, and yet he didn’t introduce me to them.

Weird . . . and annoying.

I stare out of the window so I don’t say something.

I remind myself that nobody is supposed to know about us, and that he’s just protecting his privacy.

So why didn’t he give them a fake name for me . . . hell, call me fucking Pussy Galore for all I care.

Ugh, this shouldn’t bother me; I annoy myself.

“Can I get you anything?” the beautiful stewardess asks as her eyes linger on Elliot’s face.

“Yes.” He smiles as he sits back in his seat. “Two champagnes please.”

His eyes flick over to me. “Would you like anything else?”

“No thanks.” I fake a smile: don’t talk to me, I’m not in the mood to talk to rude people.

“That will be all, thank you,” he says.

She smiles and disappears into the little room at the front.

Elliot slides his hand up my thigh and I twist my lips—don’t say it . . . don’t say it.

He brushes his fingers between my legs as he leans over and looks out of the window.

I flick his hand off. “Stop,” I whisper.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, but seeing as I don’t have a name it doesn’t matter anyway, does it?”

Amusement flashes across his face. “You’re annoyed I didn’t introduce you?”

“Nope.” I cross my arms and look out of the window again.

Damn straight, I’m fucking annoyed.

“I have my reasons,” he whispers.

“Clearly.” I smile sweetly. “I love being at a whim to your reasons.”

He chuckles and leans his head back against his seat as he looks at me.