Daria
The flight to Chicago was early, the private jet soaring softly as we climbed to cruising altitude. I sat by the window, reviewing my summit speech with my tablet balanced on my lap and a glass of champagne.
Nate was across the aisle, flipping through a report, but I felt his eyes on me every few minutes. I ignored him, pretending not to notice.
“Nice view,” he said finally, breaking the silence.
I didn’t look up. “It’s clouds, Nate. Same as every flight.”
“You know I'm not talking about the window.” His voice was calm and I hated how it made my pulse jump.
“Focus on the itinerary,” I said, tapping my tablet. “I need you at your best for the summit.”
He chuckled. “I’m always at my best. But you? You’re wound tighter than a spring. Ever think about loosening up?”
I shot him a
