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A nice, leisurely Amtrak ride from NYC to Seattle. It would take almost a week. No sudden takeoff, no noisy crowds, no screaming anything.
But noooo. I had to be Efficiency Girl and book a flight, forgetting that in her off time the fantabulous Efficiency Girl moonlights as Mistress Migraine.
So I grit my teeth, squint, and force my eyes to focus so I can count down the steps to my seat without vomiting.
At least I booked a window seat.
Sometimes watching the clouds helps ease the earthquake in my head, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll still have a nice corner to hide in.
When I get to my row, though, the aisle seat is already occupied by my seatmate.
It takes me a second to process the big, stiff man perched in the seat when there are sparks popping across my vision like the Fourth of July.
But when I finally see him—
Holy hell.
Did I say there was no bright side to this flight?
I was very, very wrong.
For a split second, I forget I’m battling the mother of all migraines.
My seatmate looks to be around his late thirties.
He’s tall. So tall that his knees press against the back of the seat in front of him, even with the extra legroom in business class.
He’s got a face cut from granite, stern and so handsome and intimidating he could be peeled right off the pages of a fashion magazine—especially with his perfectly tailored clothing.
A dark three-piece suit with a gorgeous dark-blue silk tie brings out the cutting, icy tints of blue in eyes brighter than the summer ocean. The suit is all angles, but it fits him in a way that says he’s nothing but solid muscle underneath.
Of course, he’s got the devil’s lips. Cruel, sensuous, and framed by a dark, close-cropped beard just beginning to pick up a few streaks of silver here and there.
His brows are decisive, dashed thick and dark under striking black hair swept neatly to one side, though one unruly lock arcs over his brow.
A flaw in his armor? Imperfectly perfect?
He’s killing me already.
And he does it again with his posture.
There’s something broody and furious about him.
The lines carved in his face tell me this is just his default look. It’s not whatever he’s glaring at on the laptop settled on the tray table in front of him that’s putting it there.
The stranger just flipping smolders.
There’s a visceral simmer radiating off him, taking up even more space than the man himself.
Hello, Mr. Bright Side.
Can you go from zero to daddy issues in thirty seconds flat?
Someone bumps into me from behind, and my headache drags me back to earth.
I wince—and not just because I’ve been gawking at a total stranger who isn’t acknowledging my existence while I’m next to him, blocking the aisle.
Right.
