I’d been so excited, thinking about getting proposed to in Paris.
I’d never won anything in my life before that. And for a few months, while we waited for the end of the football season to take our possibly life-changing first trip abroad together, it felt like I was the luckiest woman in the world.
But look at me now…. Darkening the eggshell-colored armrest of my first-class seat with tears as we rose into the air at a 45-degree angle before settling into a straight line.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I know sittin’ next to me is overwhelmin’, but this is too much.”
What the…
My new seatmate’s oddly cocky assumption stopped the tears I previously couldn’t control like a faucet flipped down into the off position. In a flash, I went from crying inconsolably to glaring at?—
The rolled white towel that he suddenly shoved into my eyeline before I could get a look at him. “Here, take this. It will help calm you down already.”
My disgruntled frown lifted a little. Apparently, the flight attendant had handed warm towels out while I’d been crying, and he had gotten one for me.
Okay, thoughtful. But still, I had to ask, “What makes you think my crying has anything to do with you?”
He snorted. “You tryin’ to tell me it’s just a coincidence you started blubberin’ on right when I had me a sit down next to you?”
“Not a coincidence exactly—” I started to say before stopping myself.
It wasn’t like the real story was any less embarrassing than what the stranger was imagining.
Instead of explaining, I snatched the towel, pressed it into my face with both hands—and immediately forgave the cocky stranger for everything.
“Oh my God, you are you so right!” I admitted as the towel’s heat seeped into my skin, loosening all the muscles I’d tightened during my crying fit. “This feels amazing!”
“Yeah, that heated towel’s mint, that, ain’t it?”
My new seatmate had an English accent, but not one of those nice, posh ones the British judges on American reality competition shows always seemed to have.
He’d dropped the “h” on “here” and “help,” and just about all the “g”s on any word ending in -ing. His voice also had a gruff quality to it, one that didn’t at all match the sophisticated dulcets I’d heard coming off the other English passengers in first class.
The cocky-but-thoughtful stranger’s accent made me think of less of British judges who thought they knew everything and more of English crime shows featuring violent gangsters.
“So why all the tears, then, if it’s not cos of me?” he asked. “You got a hate on that bad for planes.”
I sacrificed the soothing towel for what was supposed to be a glance—just a quick peek to see who I was even talking to.
But then I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
I thought the stranger in 1B only spoke like he could star in one of those violent British gangster shows. I didn’t expect him to look like he could, too.
He wasn’t bald, but his hair was shaved extremely close to his head. And even though he didn’t appear to be that much older than me, his brutal face told a story of way more life experience. He had a crooked nose that had obviously been broken at least once, I could only assume in a fight. And his piercing black eyes locked onto mine with unnerving focus. I also noticed he wasn’t dressed nicely, like the other mostly European men in first-class. He wore a simple gray tee and black jeans.
However, none of this made him unattractive. Other than the nose, his face was composed of sharp symmetrical lines. And I couldn’t help but let my eyes roam over the biceps that hilled underneath the cuffs of his plain t-shirt before rolling into his forearms, both of which were heavily tattooed and roped with muscle.
No, he might not be dressed as nicely, but his strong, muscular build outdid every other man in first class.
Yeah, yeah, I saw it now.
Why the flight attendant had called me lucky when he showed up at the last minute to be seated next to me.
This guy oozed potent masculinity, and now I completely understood why he’d assumed I’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of him that I had burst into tears.
“Um, no, I actually like planes,” I answered, awkwardly trying my best to recover—not just from the embarrassing crying jag but also from the sight of him.
He gritted his jaw and glared toward the window beside my seat. “Well, I don’t like ’em. Don’t like to be driven ’round by other people ’less I’m on the ground, and a lot of times not even then. And don’t even get me started on takeoff and landin’.”
