But maybe she wasn’t.
Maybe this trip had been her own quiet way of shaking things up.
I thought about all of this as I edged down the aisle toward the back of the plane, noticing that the overhead bins were already filling up. A full flight. Just my luck.
I glanced at my ticket again, finding my row—bargain economy, of course. But also… the middle seat.
An older woman was already tucked in by the window, peering out at the tarmac as though it held the secrets of the universe. In the aisle seat, reading a book with elegant but capable-looking hands… Oh.
I blinked.
Mr. Aisle Seat was…surprisingly attractive. Not in a flashy, magazine-cover way—but in a quiet, accidentally hot kind of way that caught me off guard.
His light brown hair curled a little at the ends, just long enough to suggest he hadn’t bothered with a haircut lately. But it looked soft and clean. Touchable. And his jaw looked touchable in a different sort of way—more “no time to shave” than “trying to be edgy.”
Even sitting down, I could tell he was tall. Broad shoulders. Fit in a way that seemed unintentional. Like maybe he chopped wood on weekends or ran without tracking it.
There was this whole lumberjack-meets-business-casual thing going on—and annoyingly, even in my current state, it tugged at me.
Until he glanced up.
Gray-blue eyes, the color of a summer storm, met mine.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just looked at me.
And maybe it was the silence, or the way his expression didn’t shift at all, but it felt like judgment.
Hot, yes. But not the friendly type.
Which was perfectly fine. I’m fresh off a breakup and not a big fan of men right now anyway. Not at all.
They were the scourge of the earth. The burnt bits stuck to the bottom of a pan after a sauce has curdled. The over-salted stew that can’t be fixed. The soufflé that rises perfectly in the oven, only to collapse the second you take it out.
Yeah, all of that.
Deliberately ignoring him, I hoisted my bag toward the overhead bin, into this perfect little spot right next to somebody’s overstuffed backpack. Only…it wouldn’t go in. Something was blocking it, and although I was half an inch taller than the average female, I couldn’t see what.
Still, standing on my tiptoes, reaching over Mr. Aisle Seat, I shoved harder.
Of course, that didn’t work.
My irritation flared—because, of course, even this was turning into a struggle. Just one more problem I never saw coming.
“Go. In,” I muttered through gritted teeth, fingers clawing at the fabric as I gave it one more angry shove. I growled through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the fabric like rigid claws.
Talking to it didn’t help either, though. Unfortunately.
Instead of letting me squash it into submission, it slipped from my grasp…right toward Mr. Aisle Seat’s handsome head.
It would have hit him, too, if he hadn’t reacted so fast, catching it with one hand. Effortlessly.
Then, as if being attacked by falling baggage happened every day, he stood, nudged the backpack aside with a flick of his wrist, and slid my less-streamlined carry-on into place like it had been greased with butter.
Not a grunt. Not even a blink.
And then he looked at me, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth quirking like I was the most incapable person on the plane.
More than a little condescending.
