He looks up, and oh God, his eyes are this incredible steel blue that pins me in place.
“What?” His voice is deep, calm. “But I believe there’s been a mistake.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his boarding pass. “I have seat 3A.”
I wave my boarding pass at him. “So do I!”
“I can see that.” He doesn’t sound annoyed. “It seems the airline made an error.”
“Well, you need to move!” I’m getting hysterical now, and I hate it, but I can’t stop. “I won this ticket. I won it fair and square at trivia, and I’ve had the worst day of my entire life, and I just need to sit down!”
Tears are threatening, and this beautiful stranger’s gaze softens.
“Hey.” His voice is so gentle it almost breaks me. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”
A flight attendant appears, wearing a tight, professional smile. “Is there a problem?”
“Double booking,” the man says, still calm. “We both have 3A.”
She checks both boarding passes, types something into her tablet, and winces. “I’m so sorry. This is our error. Ms. Castellanos, I can reseat you in 3B, right next to this seat. Would that work?”
I nod, too embarrassed to speak.
She helps me get settled, and I sink into 3B, my face burning. I just had a complete meltdown in front of the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
The plane starts taxiing, and I stare out the window, trying to pretend I don’t exist.
My phone buzzes in my lap. Again. I glance down. I’ve been ignoring calls from Mason and Lizzy all night. The text messages are piling up as well.
Savannah, please. We need to talk.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please call me back.
Where are you? Your car is still at the house.
I open my Photos app and start scrolling. There’s Mason and me at Mom’s funeral, his arm around my shoulders, playing the supportive boyfriend while probably already planning how to get into Lizzy’s pants.
Delete.
Mason at Christmas. Mason at my birthday dinner. Mason, Mason, Mason.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
My thumb is shaking, but it feels good. Like I’m erasing him from my life one picture at a time.
The plane levels off, and the seat belt sign dings off. The man next to me opens his laptop again, and I try not to stare at those tattoos peeking out from his sleeve, or notice how good he smells.
A flight attendant appears with a cart. “Can I get you anything? We have a selection of meals or drinks if you prefer.”
“Just water, please.” My voice sounds hollow.
She hands me a bottle, and I twist the cap. It doesn’t budge. I try again, harder this time, and the plastic digs into my palm, but the damn thing won’t open.
Of course. Of course I can’t even open a bottle of water.
A large hand reaches over and plucks the bottle from my grip. He closes his laptop and tucks it into the seat pocket. Then he twists the cap off with zero effort and hands it back to me.
“Thanks,” I manage, and it comes out breathy and embarrassing.
“Rough day?”
