The indicator panel below the overhead bin read: 3D, aisle. 3F, window.
I looked down at the seat I was currently occupying—the one pressed right against the window.
I'd taken the wrong seat.
Jesus Christ.
The first time in my life I'd dropped twelve hundred bucks on a first-class ticket, and I'd taken the wrong damn seat.
That surge of arrogance I'd reclaimed in the terminal evaporated instantly, like someone had dumped ice water over my head. I could even feel the blood boiling in my cheeks, heat crawling all the way to my ears.
I grabbed my purse and stood, trying to salvage what dignity I had left. "Excuse me."
He didn't move. One hand slipped into his pants pocket as he watched me with all the time in the world. "There's enough space between the seats. Just come through."
"You're blocking the aisle. How am I supposed to get through?"
"That's your problem."
I took a deep breath. Okay, Vivienne, you can do this. You just have to squeeze past him. Pretend he's an inanimate leather sofa.
I turned sideways, sucked in my stomach, and tried to minimize contact with his body as I attempted to slip through the narrow gap in front of him.
The plane shook slightly at that exact moment.
"Ah!" My heel caught on the edge where the carpet seams met, and my body tilted forward. My chest slammed directly into his.
Only a second. But his hand had already locked around my wrist, his other hand hovering at my waist. His palm was broad, rough, his heat searing through the cutout on the side of my dress and branding my skin. Through the thin silk slip dress, I could feel the taut muscles of his thigh pressing against me through his suit pants.
"Careful."
His voice dropped low.
I looked up and met his eyes.
I saw clearly that his gaze wasn't on my face. It slid down along my collarbone, landing on the expanse of cleavage exposed by the movement, then settling on the generous curves of my waistand hips.
His expression changed. The mockery and teasing faded, replaced by something aggressive, a dark fire that felt like it could consume.
"How much longer are you planning to stay in my arms, little girl?" His voice was lower than before, rough with a dangerous magnetism.
I snapped back to reality, shoving against his chest like I'd been burned, and stumbled back into the aisle seat—3D. "Don't flatter yourself. I just lost my balance."
He let out a low chuckle, didn't argue, and moved past me with deliberate ease before settling into the window seat.
I stared hard at the seatback in front of me, my heartbeat refusing to settle.
That blind bastard Derek used to complain before he cheated that my body took up too much space, that I'd be perfect if I could just be model-thin like the girls in magazines.
But just now—I swear—this man sitting next to me, the one whose presence alone could make airport security back down, there was no disgust in his eyes. Not a trace. Only raw, primal, male desire.
The plane started taxiing. I took several deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. Last night's humiliation, this morning's hangover, and this hormone-radiating bastard beside me—all these chaotic emotions tangled together and somehow produced a strange clarity in my brain.
You're a writer. Even if right now you're barely surviving as an editorial assistant at a magazine, you still have a writer's instincts, don't you?
So when life slaps you across the face, what do you do?
You write it into a book and sell it.
