“Can you move?” a voice behind me growls.
Startled, I turn toward the man behind me in the line. “I’m sorry?” I say in a fluster. “Did you want to get past?”
“No. I want these fucking idiots at the desk to hurry up. I’m going to miss my damn plane.” He sneers, and I smell the alcohol wafting off him. “They make me sick.”
I turn back to the front. Great, a drunk in the check-in line. Just what I need.
Heathrow Airport is bustling. Bad weather has delayed most of the flights, and to be honest, I wish they would delay mine. Then I could turn around and go back to the hotel and sleep for a week.
I am not in the mood for this shit.
I hear the man turn and complain to the people behind him, and I roll my eyes. Why are people so damn rude?
For another ten minutes, I listen to him bitch, sigh, and moan until I can take it no longer. I turn to him. “They are working as fast as they can. There’s no need to be rude,” I snap.
“What?” he yells as he turns his anger on me.
“Manners are free,” I mutter under my breath.
“Manners are free?” he cries. “What are you, a schoolteacher? Or just a raving bitch?”
I glare at him. Oh, I dare all right. I’ve just spent the last forty-eight hours in hell. I flew across the world to go to a wedding, only to watch my ex-boyfriend drape himself over his new girlfriend. I’m in the mood to cut somebody today.
Don’t mess with me.
I turn back to the front as my fury begins to boil.
He kicks my suitcase at my feet, and I turn. “Stop it,” I snap.
He gets right up in my face, and I wince at the smell of his breath. “I’ll do whatever I fucking like.”
I see security come through the lounge as they watch him. The staff has seen what’s going on here and called for backup. I fake a smile. “Please don’t kick my bag, sir,” I say sweetly.
“I’ll kick whatever I fucking like.” He picks up my suitcase and throws it across the airport.
“What the hell?” I screech.
“Hey,” the man behind us cries. “Don’t touch her stuff. Security!” he says.
Mr. Drunk and Disorderly throws a punch at my savior, and a scuffle breaks out.
Security comes running in from everywhere, and I am pushed back as he throws punches and screams obscenities. Oh hell, I do not need this today.
Eventually they get him under control, and he is taken away in handcuffs. The kind security guard picks up my bag. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “Come with me,” he says as he unhooks the rope on the line.
“Thank you.” I smile awkwardly at everyone else in the line. I hate jumping the queue, but at this point, I just don’t care. “Great.” I sheepishly follow him, and he takes me to a young man’s counter. He looks up and smiles broadly. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Look after her,” the security guard tells the ticket man, and he gives us both a wink and disappears through the crowd.
“Identification, please?” the man asks.
I scramble through my purse and dig out my passport and pass it over; he smiles as he looks at the photo. Oh man, that’s the worst photo in all of history. “Did you see me on Most Wanted?” I ask.
“Possibly. That photo: Is it even you?” He laughs.
I smile, embarrassed. “I hope not. I’m in trouble if it is.”
He types in my details. “Okay, so we have you flying to New York today with a . . .” He stops typing and reads.
“Uh-huh. Preferably not next to that man.”
“He won’t be going anywhere today,” he replies as he continues to type at a ridiculous speed. “Other than the lockup.”
“Why would you get drunk before coming to the airport?” I ask. “He hasn’t even been inside to the airport bars yet.”
“You would be surprised by what goes on around here,” he sighs.
I smile; this guy is nice.
He prints off my tickets. “I’ve upgraded you.”
“What?”
“First class, as an apology for him mishandling your bag.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, that’s not necessary . . . really,” I stammer.
He hands the tickets over and smiles broadly. “Enjoy your flight.”
“Thank you so much,” I gush.
He gives me a wink, and I could just reach over and hug him. But of course I won’t. I’ll pretend that cool things like this happen to me every day.
“Thanks again.” I smile.
“You have access to the VIP lounge, which is located on level one. Lunch and drinks are on the house in there. Have a safe flight.” With one last smile, he looks back to the line. “Next, please.”
I walk through the baggage checks with a huge goofy grin on my face.
First class—just what the doctor ordered.
Three hours later, I walk onto the plane like a rock star. I didn’t end up going into the VIP lounge because, well . . . I look like crap. My long dark hair is up in a high ponytail, and I’m wearing black leggings, a baggy pink sweater, and tennis shoes, but I did fix my makeup a little, so that’s something. If I had known I was going to be upgraded, I would have at least tried to look the part and worn something swanky instead of looking like a homeless person. But anyway . . . who cares? It’s not like I’m going to see anyone I know.
I hand my ticket over to the flight attendant. “Just through the left aisle and to the right.”
“Thanks.” I look at my ticket and walk through the plane and see my number.
1B.
Damn it, I don’t have a window. I get to my seat, and a man sitting next to the window turns to me. Big blue eyes greet me, and he smiles. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I say.
Oh no . . . I’m sitting next to God’s gift to women . . . only he’s hotter.
I look like shit. Fuck it.
I open the overhead, and he stands. “Here, let me.” He takes my bag from me and carefully places it up. He’s tall and built and wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt; he smells like the best aftershave in history.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I pull my hand through my ponytail, trying to smooth out the knots. I mentally kick myself for not wearing something better.
“Do you want the window seat?” he asks.
I stare at him as my brain misfires.
He gestures to the seat beside the window.
“You don’t mind?” I frown.
“Not at all.” He smiles. “I fly all the time. You can have it.”
I force a smile. “Thanks.” That was code for “I know you got upgraded, you poor homeless person, and I feel sorry for you.” I sit down in my seat and look nervously out the window, with my hands clasped in front of me on my lap.
“Are you going home?” he asks.
I turn to him. Oh, please don’t talk to me. You make me nervous just sitting there. “No, I’ve been at a wedding, and I have a job interview in New York on the way home. I’m only there for the day, and then I fly out again to LA. I live there.”
“Ah.” He smiles. “I see.”
I stare at him for a moment; I should ask him a question now. “Are . . . you going home?” I say.
“Yes.”
I nod, unsure what to say next, so I choose the lame option and stare back out the window.
The attendant walks around with a bottle of champagne and glasses.
Glasses. Since when do airlines give you a real glass?
Oh right, first class. I knew that.
“Would you like some champagne to take off with, sir?” the flight attendant asks him. I notice that her name tag says JESSICA.
“That would be lovely.” He smiles and turns to me. “Make that two, please.”
I frown as she pours two glasses of champagne and passes one to him and one to me. “Thank you.” I smile.
I wait for Jessica to move out of earshot. “Do you always order drinks for other people?” I ask.
He looks surprised by my statement. “Did it bother you?”
“Not at all,” I huff. Damn this Mr. Fancy Pants for thinking he can order for me. “I do like to order my own drinks, though.”
He smiles. “Well, you can order the next ones, then.” He raises his glass to me and smirks; then he takes a sip. He seems amused by my annoyance.
I stare at him deadpan. This could be victim number two of my cutting today. I am not in the mood for some rich old bastard to boss me around. I sip my champagne as I look out the window. Well, he’s not really old. Maybe mid- to late thirties. I mean, old compared to me; I’m twenty-five. But whatever.
“I’m Jim,” he says as he holds his hand out to shake mine.
Oh God, now I have to be polite. I shake his hand. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”
His eyes dance with mischief. “Hello, Emily.”
His eyes are big, bright blue, and dreamy, the kind I could get lost in. But why is he looking at me like that?
The plane begins to travel slowly down the runway, and I look between the earphones and armrest. Where do these plug in? They’re high tech, the kind that overconfident YouTubers use. They don’t even have a cord. I look around. Well, this is stupid. How do I plug them in?
“They’re Bluetooth,” Jim interrupts me.
“Oh,” I mutter, feeling stupid. Of course they are. “Right.”
“You haven’t flown first class before?” he asks.
“No. I got an upgrade. Some weirdo threw my bag across the airport when he was drunk. I think the guy at the desk felt sorry for me.” I give him a lopsided smile.
He rolls his lips as if amused and sips his champagne; his eyes linger on my face as if he has something on his mind.
“What?” I ask.
“Perhaps the guy at the desk thought you were gorgeous and upgraded you to try to impress you.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” I sip my champagne as I try to hide my smile. That’s an odd thing to say. “Is that what you would do?” I ask. “If you were at the desk, would you upgrade women to impress them?”
“Absolutely.”
I smirk.
“Impressing a woman you’re attracted to is crucial,” he continues.
I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up with the conversation. Why does that statement sound flirty? “And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated.
His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.”
The air crackles between us, and I bite my lip to hide my goofy smile.
“You’re trying to impress me?” I ask.
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “How am I doing?”
I smirk, unsure what to say.
“I’m simply saying that you’re attractive, nothing more and nothing less. Don’t read into it. It was a statement, not a question.”
“Oh.” I stare at him, lost for words. What do I even say to that? Statement, not a question . . . huh? Don’t read into it. This guy is weird . . . and utterly gorgeous.
The plane begins to take off with speed, and I hold on to my armrests and scrunch my eyes shut.
“You don’t like takeoffs?” he asks.
“Do I look like I like takeoffs?” I wince as I hang on for dear life.
“I love them,” he replies casually. “I love the feeling of power as it surges forward. That g-force throwback.”
Okay . . . why is everything coming out of his mouth sounding sexual?
God, I need to get laid . . . stat.
I exhale and stare out the window as we go higher and higher. I don’t have the energy for this guy to play cute today. I’m tired, I’m hungover, I look crappy, and my ex is a douche. I want to go to sleep and wake up next year.
I decide I’ll watch a movie. I begin to flick through the choices on the screen in front of me.
He leans over and says, “Great minds think alike. I’m watching a movie too.”
I fake a smile. Just stop being all hot and in my space. You’re probably married to a vegan yoga nut who does meditation and shit.
“Great,” I mutter deadpan. I should have flown coach; at least I wouldn’t have had to inhale the scent of beautiful man for eight long, sexless hours.
I scroll through my screen and then narrow it down to my choices.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.
Pride and Prejudice.
The Heat.
Jumanji . . . well, that has the Rock in it—it has to be good.
Notting Hill.
The Proposal.
50 First Dates.
Pretty Woman.
Sleepless in Seattle.
Magic Mike XXL.
I smile at the choices, all of my favorites lined in a row; this flight is going to be a dream. I haven’t seen the sequel to Magic Mike yet, so I might start with that one. I glance over to look at what Jim has picked, and I see the heading come up.
Lincoln.
Ugh . . . a political movie. Who watches that stuff for fun? I should have known he’d be boring.
He reaches up and taps the screen, and I catch sight of his watch. A chunky silver Rolex. Ugh, and he has money too.
Typical.
“What are you going to watch?” he asks.
Oh no . . . I don’t want to appear ditzy. “I’m not sure yet,” I reply. Damn you . . . I want to watch men strip. “What are you watching?” I ask.
“Lincoln. I’ve been meaning to see it for a long time.”
“Sounds boring,” I say.
He smiles at my answer. “I’ll let you know.” He puts his earphones on and begins to watch his movie, and I scroll through my choices again. I really want to watch Magic Mike XXL. Does it matter if he sees? No . . . that’s just embarrassing. It makes me look desperate.
Who am I kidding? I am desperate. I haven’t seen a dick in over a year.
I tap on The Proposal. I’ll swap one fantasy for another. I’ve always dreamed of having Ryan Reynolds as my personal assistant. The movie begins, and I smile at the screen. I love this movie. No matter how many times I watch it, I always laugh. Gammy is my favorite.
“You’re watching a romance?” he asks.
“A rom-com,” I reply. For God’s sake, this guy is nosy.
He smirks as if he’s better than me.
“More champagne?” the flight attendant asks.
Blue Eyes looks over at me. “Here’s your chance to order for us.”
I stare at him flatly; all right, he’s beginning to piss me off now. “We’ll have two, please.”
“What do you like about rom-coms?” he asks as he keeps his eyes on the screen in front of him.
“Men who don’t talk during movies,” I whisper into my champagne glass.
He smiles broadly to himself.
“What do you like about . . .” I pause because I don’t even know what Lincoln is about. “Political films?” I ask. “The fact that they’re boring as all hell?”
“I just like true stories, regardless of what they are.”
“So do I,” I reply. “That’s why I like romance. Love is true.”
He chuckles into his glass as if amused.
I glance over at him. “What does that mean?”
“Rom-coms are as far from reality as you can get. I bet you’re the type who reads trashy romance novels too.”
I stare at him flatly. I think I hate this man. “I am, actually . . . and if you must know, I’m watching Magic Mike XXL after this so I can watch gorgeous men take their clothes off.” I sip my champagne in annoyance. “And I’ll smile through the whole damn thing, regardless of your snooty judgment.”
He laughs out loud, and it’s deep and strong and does things to my stomach.
I put my headphones back on and pretend to focus on my screen. I can’t, though, because I just totally embarrassed myself, and I can feel myself blushing.
Stop talking.
Two hours later, I sit and stare out the window. My movie is over, but his scent is not. It’s surrounding me, taunting me with things that I shouldn’t be thinking about.
How does he smell so good?
Unsure what to do without seeming awkward, I decide I’ll take a nap, try to sleep through the next few hours, but first I need to go to the bathroom. I stand. “Excuse me.”
He moves his legs a little but not enough for me to fit through, and I have to lean over him to get past. I stumble and fall and put my hand on his thigh; it’s large and hard to my touch. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, embarrassed.
“That’s fine.” He smirks up at me. “More than fine.”
I stare at him for a moment. Huh?
“There’s a method to my madness.”
I frown. What does that mean? I make my way past him and go to the bathroom, and then I walk around and stretch my legs a little as I ponder that statement. I’m stumped—I’ve got nothing. “What did you mean by that?” I ask as I fall back into my seat.
“Nothing.”
“Did you give me the window seat so I would have to climb over you?”
He tilts his head to the side. “No, I gave you the window seat because you wanted it. Climbing over me was just an added bonus.”
I stare at him as I struggle to respond. Am I imagining this? Older rich guys don’t usually speak to me like this . . . at all. “Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I ask.
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I don’t know. Am I?”
“I asked you first, and don’t answer my question with a question.”
He smirks as he turns his attention back to the television screen. “This is probably where you should start flirting back . . . Emily.”
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I try to hide my stupid smile. “I don’t flirt. I either want a man or I don’t,” I announce.
“Is that so?” he says as if fascinated. “And how long after you meet a man do you make that decision?”
“Instantaneously,” I lie. That’s not true, but I’ll pretend. Faking confidence is my superpower.
“Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her.
“Of course, sir.”
His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?”
I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.”
He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“You are.”
“Why am I funny?” I frown.
“This sense of righteousness that you have.”
“Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.”
Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip. “What were you doing in London?”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “I flew over for a friend’s wedding, and to be honest, I wish I hadn’t gone.”
“Why not?”
“My ex was there with his new squeeze, and he was being over-the-top affectionate with her to piss me off.”
“Which worked, obviously,” he adds as he tilts his glass toward me.
“Hmm.” I sip my drink in disgust. “Just a little.”
“What did she look like?”
“Long bleached-blonde hair and huge silicone lips and boobs and eyelashes and fake tan and everything I’m not.”
“Hmm.” He listens intently.
“Like Backseat Barbie on crack.”
He chuckles. “Everyone loves a Backseat Barbie.”
I look over at him in disgust. “This is probably where you should tell me that all men hate Backseat Barbies, Jim. Don’t you know anything about polite plane-conversation etiquette?”
“Obviously not.” He frowns as he considers my statement. “Why would I do that?”
I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “To be nice.”
“Oh, right.” He frowns as if bracing himself to lie. “Emily . . . all men are repulsed by Backseat Barbies.”
I smile as I tip my glass to him. “Thank you, Jim.”
“Although . . .” He pauses for a moment. “If they give good head . . .”
What the hell?
I snort my champagne up my nose and choke. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear come out of his mouth. “Jim,” I splutter as it sprays everywhere.
He laughs as he grabs his napkins and hands them over, and I wipe the drink dribbling from my chin.
“Men who look like you are not supposed to talk about head.” I cough.
“Why not?” he asks incredulously. “And what do you mean, men who look like me?”
“All serious and stuff.”
He looks at me deadpan. “Define stuff.”
“You know, older, rich, and bossy.”
His eyes dance with delight. “And what gives you the impression that I’m rich and bossy?”
I exhale in an overexaggerated way. “You look rich.”
“How do I?”
“Your fancy watch. The cut of your shirt.” I glance down at his shoes. “I’ve never seen shoes like that before. Where did you even get those?”
“In a shop, Emily.” He looks at his watch. “And I’ll have you know that this watch was a gift from a girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet she’s a vegan yoga nut.”
He smirks.
“I know your type of woman.”
“Really.” He leans closer. “Please go on—this character analysis is fascinating.”
I smile as a little voice from my subconscious screams, Stop drinking, fool! “I’m assuming you live in New York.”
“Correct.”
“In an apartment.”
“Affirmative.”
“You probably work at some ritzy company.”
He smiles; he likes this game. “Perhaps.”
“You would have a girlfriend or . . .” I glance down. “You don’t wear a wedding ring . . . so perhaps you cheat on your wife when you travel for work?”
He chuckles. “You really should make a profession out of this. I’m amazed at the accuracy.”
I like this game too; I smile broadly. “What do you think about me?” I ask. “What was your first impression when I walked onto the plane?”
“Well.” He frowns as he considers the question. “Do you want the politically correct version?”
“No. I want the truth.”
“Right . . . well, in that case, I noticed your long legs and the curve of your neck. The dimple in your chin. You are the most attractive woman I’ve seen in a long time, and when you smiled, it brought me to my feet.”
I smile softly as the air swirls between us.
“And then you spoke . . . and ruined everything.”
What?
I burst out laughing. “I ruined everything? How did I ruin everything?”
“You’re bossy, with a sarcastic snark.”
“What’s the problem with that?” I stammer in outrage.
“Well, I’m bossy and sarcastic.” He shrugs.
“And?”
“And I don’t want to date myself. I like sweet, demure girls, the ones who do what I say.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “The ones who clean the house and have sex on Saturdays.”
“Precisely.”
I laugh and hold my glass up to clink with his. “You’re not bad for a boring old guy with weird shoes.”
He laughs. “And you’re not bad for a young, hot smart-ass.”
“Do you want to watch Magic Mike XXL with me?” I ask.
“I suppose, although I should let you know . . . I am an ex-stripper myself, so this is nothing new for me.”
“Really?” I try to hide my smile. “You’re good on a pole?”
His eyes hold mine. “My pole work is the best in the country.”
The air crackles between us, and I have to concentrate on stopping my inebriated mouth from saying something slutty.
He pushes the screen and taps through to Magic Mike XXL . . . and I smile broadly. This man is so unexpected.
First class is definitely the way to fly.
Six hours later
“Okay, next question. The weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?” he whispers.
I smirk. “You can’t ask me that.”
“Yes, I can. I just did.”
“It’s rude.”
“Says who?” He looks around. “It’s just a question, and nobody is listening.”
Jim and I have talked and whispered and laughed our way through the entire flight. “Hmm.” I think out loud. “That’s a tough one.”
“Why?”
“I’m on a bit of a drought at the moment. I can hardly remember any sex.”
“How long?” He frowns.
“Oh.” I look to the ceiling as I think. “I haven’t had sex in like . . . eighteen months.”
His face falls in horror. “What?”
“It’s lame, isn’t it?” I wince.
“Very. You need to up your game. They’re very bad statistics, indeed.”
“I know.” I giggle. Boy . . . we’re so tipsy. “Why am I telling you all this stuff?” I whisper. “You’re just some random guy I met on a plane.”
“Who happens to be very interested in the subject.”
“Why is that?”
He leans in and whispers to me so that the flight attendants can’t hear us. “I don’t understand how someone as hot as you doesn’t get fucked three times a day.”
I stare at him as I feel a tingle all the way to my toes. Stop it. This guy is too old for me and so not my type.
His eyes drop to my lips, and the air between us zaps with electricity.
“How long are you in New York?” he asks.
I watch his tongue dart out and lick his bottom lip in slow motion. I can almost feel it between my . . . “Just the afternoon. I have my interview at six tonight, and then I catch the last flight out,” I whisper.
“Can you change your flight?”
Why? “No.”
He smirks as he watches me, and it’s obvious he’s imagining something.
“What?” I smile.
“I wish we were on a private jet.”
“Why is that?”
His eyes drop to my lips once more. “Because I’d break that drought of yours and initiate you into the Miles-High Club.”
I get a visual of climbing on top of him, right here, right now. “It’s Mile-High Club . . . not Miles,” I whisper.
“No . . . it’s Miles.” He smirks as his eyes darken. “Trust me—it’s Miles.”
Something inside me snaps, and suddenly I want to say something crazy and out of the ordinary. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “You know, I’ve never fucked a stranger before.”
He inhales sharply as his eyes hold mine. “Do you want to fuck a stranger?” he murmurs as arousal thrums between us.
I stare at him. This is so out of character for me.
This man makes me . . .
“Don’t be shy,” he whispers. “Tell me, if we were alone right now . . .” He pauses as he chooses his words. “What would you give me, Emily?”
My eyes search his, and maybe it’s the alcohol or the lack of sex or the fact that I know I’ll never see him again . . . or perhaps I’m just a total ho. “Me,” I breathe. “I would give you me.”
Our eyes lock, and as if forgetting where we are, he leans forward and cups my face in his hand. His eyes are so blue, and a wave of arousal sweeps through me at his touch.
I want this man.
I want all of this man . . . every last drop.
“Hot towel?” Jessica the flight attendant asks.
We jump back from each other, embarrassed. What must they think of us? They’ve been watching us flirt shamelessly for the entire trip.
“Thank you,” I stammer as I take the towel from her.
“There’s a snowstorm in New York, and we’re going to circle for a while to see if we can land,” she says.
“What happens if we can’t?” Jim asks.
“We will fly on to Boston and have an emergency layover for the night. You will be accommodated in a hotel, of course. We’ll know in the next ten minutes. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thank you.”
She walks off to the other side of the plane and out of earshot, and Jim leans over and whispers, “I hope New York freezes the fuck over.”
Nerves dance in my stomach. “Why is that?”
“I have plans for us,” he whispers darkly.
I stare at him as my brain misfires. I’ve been prick teasing like a pro, but I’m really not that kind of girl. It’s easy to be brave and slutty when there’s no chance of anything happening. I begin to perspire. Why did I get so damn tipsy? Why did I tell him about my drought? That’s supposed to be kept private, fool.
“Another drink?” Jim whispers.
“I can’t—I have a job interview this afternoon.”
“That won’t be happening.”
“Don’t say that,” I stammer. “I want this job.”
“Good evening, passengers; this is the captain speaking.” A voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I close my eyes. Shit.
“Due to a snowstorm in New York, we will be flying on to Boston tonight and staying there. We will return to New York early in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused, but safety is our priority.”
My eyes meet Jim’s, and he gives me a slow and sexy smile and raises his eyebrow.
Oh no.
