“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 have 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.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.”

“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.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“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 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.”