Like a volleyball.
Directly. Into. His. Chest.
The cup explodes on impact. Tomato juice erupts across the man’s pristine white shirt in a spectacular crimson burst that splashes up onto his jaw—a perfect slash of red against sharp cheekbones.
It drips down onto his expensive suit pants, soaking into the fabric. And—oh God—some of it hits his perfectly styled hair, leaving a streak of red.
He looks like he's been shot in an Italian restaurant.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
For a moment, nobody moves. The cabin has gone eerily quiet except for the hum of the engines and someone's stifled laughter from row 3.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I whisper. “I tried to catch it, and instead I... batted it. Like a goalkeeper.”
He doesn’t respond right away—just stares at his chest, then at me.
“I have Wet Ones,” I blurt, digging through my tote. “And Tide To-Go. Possibly expired. Wait—baby wipes! I swear by these. Club soda? No, water. I have water. That’s something.”
He exhales—hardly a sigh—when the flight attendant materializes.
“Is there a problem here?” Her gaze zeroes in on me. “Ma’am, I’m really going to have to see your ticket.”
“I—uh—don’t?—”
“She’s with me,” Tomato Man interrupts, stepping forward. “I have her ticket.”
The flight attendant blinks. “Of course, Mr.—yes. Of course.” She pivots and vanishes without further question.
Silence settles in the aisle, as he wipes some of the sauce from his cheek, and I gape up at him, stunned.
“I can’t—You didn’t—“ I bluster. “I just mean…Thanks for the save. I swear I didn’t plan any of this. I’ve never even flown first class—unless you count that tiny commuter plane once where every seat was fancy by default?—”
“Sit down,” he says, already moving toward his seat. “I always book two. In case I don’t want company.”
My brain snags on the “in case I don’t want company” part.
But then he adds, “Apparently, fate has other plans.”
He’s not smiling, but there’s a flicker of something dry and sharp in his tone. Like he’s not totally mad about it.
I follow him down the aisle, trying not to stare. Because some part of my brain—the one that organizes chaos into cookable form—is already processing him like a recipe:
Recipe: Sexy Grump on the Plane
• 1 ruined shirt
• Over six feet of sarcasm
• 2 airplane seats, no strings attached
• A heaping of weirdly hot and grumpy charm
• Inexplicable attraction, to taste
“Are you sure?” I ask, pausing beside the empty seat.
His eyes skim over me: the tote bag, the damp baby wipe in my hand, the residual panic probably still clinging to my face.
