Available. Empty. Probably gold-plated with complimentary hand lotion and a bidet.
But then the family bathroom door opens, and instead of the child emerging, it's the mother, who announces cheerfully, "Okay, Daddy's turn!"
Daddy's turn.
That's it. I'm going rogue.
"Sorry," I mutter to the elderly man behind me. "Bathroom emergency. I'll be quick."
I speed-walk toward the curtain separating economy from first class. The flight attendant is at the front, helping someone with their bag. The first-class bathroom door is right there. Twenty feet away.
Freedom.
I slip past the curtain, and I realize I’m going to make it.
I'm going to?—
"Ma'am?"
I freeze mid-stride, one hand already reaching for the first-class bathroom door handle.
So close. I turn around slowly.
The flight attendant—a woman with severely pulled-back hair and a smile that could cut glass—is staring at me like I just tried to steal the plane.
"Are you seated in first class?" she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.
"No, but the bathroom back there has a family doing some kind of multi-generational rotation situation, and I really?—"
"I'm afraid this bathroom is reserved for first-class passengers."
"It's just that I really have to?—"
"Company policy." Her smile doesn't waver. "Please return to your seat."
I consider my options and choose defeat, because I'm Harper Beaumont, and if my recent divorce has taught me anything, it’s that I’m a people-pleaser who apologizes too much.
I turn around and start back toward economy—when suddenly the plane hits turbulence.
Not gentle turbulence. Not "please return to your seats" turbulence.
Full-on "Oh God, we're all going to die" turbulence.
The plane lurches violently to the left. I stumble, arms flailing?—
And crash directly into someone.
Someone who is very much not expecting a five-foot-five woman to use him as a human airbag.
"What the?—"
I look up…and realize that the person I've just crashed into—the person I'm currently pressed against as the plane shakes—is possibly the most beautiful man I've ever seen in real life.
Tall. Over six feet, easily, with dark hair, perfectly styled in that "I woke up like this but actually spent twenty minutes on it" way.
And slate-gray eyes currently staring down at me with an expression that says, "Who are you and why are you violating my personal space?"
He's wearing a suit. On a flight to Vegas.
