Nobody wears a suit to Vegas unless they're going to a business conference or they're in the mafia.
"I'm so sorry," I start?—
The plane lurches again.
I stumble forward. My hand shoots out to catch myself and lands directly on his chest.
His very firm chest.
"Mon Dieu," I breathe.
"Are you quite finished?" he asks.
His voice is deep. Clipped. And vaguely familiar.
Have I heard this voice before?
"I was just—" I gesture toward the bathroom, my hand still on his chest because the plane is still rocking and I have zero interest in face-planting into his lap. "Bathroom emergency. The family of four has been in there for like half an hour, and I really?—"
"The economy bathroom," he says slowly, enunciating each word like I'm a particularly dim five-year-old, "is that way."
The plane steadies, and I step back, peeling myself off him.
"Right. Yes. I'm aware. It's just that there was a situation—a family situation—and the flight attendant said I couldn't use the first-class bathroom, which honestly seems like a weird capitalist power play during a legitimate medical emergency, but?—"
I'm babbling.
Stop babbling, Harper.
"—anyway, sorry for the whole..." I motion to the space between us. "Crashing into you thing. And the chest-touching thing. That was unintentional."
His expression doesn't change. If anything, his jaw tightens slightly.
"Perhaps next time," he says, his tone so cold I'm surprised frost doesn't form on the overhead bins, "you could try staying in your assigned section of the aircraft."
Oh.
Oh, he's one of those.
The kind of person who thinks first-class passengers are a different species. The kind who probably complains when economy passengers walk through his section to board. The kind who?—
"Perhaps next time," I hear myself say, because apparently my mouth has decided today is the day we burn every bridge, "you could try being less of a?—"
The plane lurches again.
Violently.
I stumble forward, hands windmilling.
Behind me, I hear a crash. A yelp. The unmistakable sound of the beverage cart losing a fight with physics.
I turn just in time to see it: a full cup of tomato juice—thick, red, inevitably staining tomato juice—launching through the air like a heat-seeking missile.
It does a somersault through the cabin in slow motion.
I lunge forward, arms outstretched, channeling every volleyball game I played in high school?—
And instead of catching it, I bat it.
