I pulled out my sticker-covered MacBook and flipped it open.
What better time to create than now?
Betrayal, arrogant assholes—if I could just detach from my emotions, this was gold. Pure gold.
I opened my document, and my fingers flew across the keyboard. I was writing a high-society charity gala scene where my protagonist Samantha was carefully orchestrating her plan to publicly destroyRachel, the vicious woman who'd stolen everything from her. I poured all my rage, humiliation, and vengeful satisfaction into my fingertips, every line crackling with tension and drama.
I was so absorbed I completely missed what was happening beside me.
"Wow. This is good."
That low voice detonated in my ear without warning.
I nearly threw my laptop. I whipped my head around and found the man had leaned over at some point, his arm braced on the armrest between us, blatantly reading my screen.
I snapped the laptop shut with a sharp click. "Don't you know it's rude to look at someone else's screen?"
"I wasn't deliberately looking." He shrugged innocently and leaned back in his seat, those gray eyes filled with familiar amusement. "Your font's large enough. Plus, you're hitting those keys like you're trying to murder them. Hard not to notice." He paused. "Also, I have to say, that comeback line Samantha delivers at the gala? Better than most Hollywood screenwriters could manage."
I froze.
I'd never been confident about my writing. Derek always critiqued my novels with this condescending tone, calling them "a little girl's boring fantasies."
And now this man—who looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a financial magazine, clearly demanding and sharp-tongued—was complimenting my dialogue?
The anger in my chest miraculously dissipated by half.
"You really think... it's good?" I looked at him skeptically, my tone softening without my permission.
"I have no reason to lie." He shrugged.
A wave of sweet perfume drifted over. A blonde flight attendant with the drink cart stopped beside us. She glanced at me once, then when she turned to the man beside me, her smile bloomed like a sunflower in full sun.
"Sir, what can I get you to drink?" Her voice was so syrupyit could squeeze out sugar, and she leaned forward slightly, making her uniform's neckline plunge deeper. "We have fresh Dom Pérignon, or would you prefer something stronger?"
He didn't even lift his eyelids. "Dirty martini." Then his gaze slid to me. "Give the lady your best champagne. Put it on my tab."
The blonde's smile stiffened. She muttered something and fumbled with the drinks.
I raised an eyebrow in surprise at the glass of premium champagne fizzing in front of me. "They serve this stuff on planes? I thought first-class perks were just extra legroom."
"As long as you ask, most places in this world will provide whatever service you want, sweetheart." He picked up his martini, his long fingers gripping the stem as he gave it a gentle swirl. "So, this man who's making you commit murder on your keyboard, who even had you screaming at airport security while wearing that ridiculous pink plastic toy—exactly what level of idiot are we talking about?"
What? How did he know about that?
"You eavesdropped on my phone call?" I stared at him in disbelief.
"I just happened to be sitting not far from you." He took a sip of his martini, his Adam's apple rolling in a way that was almost obscene. "If you didn't want people to hear, maybe you should've controlled your volume."
I should've been angry, but whether it was the comfortable cabin temperature or that compliment about my novel, I suddenly felt this urge to talk.
Fine.
Maybe this was a good opportunity to vent.
Besides, we were just strangers who'd share this one flight together. Even if I told him everything, there'd be no follow-up.
"A complete fucking weakling." I grabbed the champagne and took a large gulp, the bubbles and burn exploding in my mouth. "An asshole who sent me photos of him in bed with another woman a week before our wedding."
