4
Natalia
I hate airports,I hate flying, and I’m always rudely reminded of it whenever I fly somewhere. After I pack for my three nights in Maui, I say goodbye to Kira, who promises to record our trashy shows, and then I call an Uber to LAX. By the time I get to the airport, make my way through security, and board the plane, I’m exhausted. At least Luca had the foresight to book me into business class. Once I tuck my carryon into the overhead compartment, I fall into my cushy seat and get settled, letting out a sigh of relief. I flip through the menu and try to choose which alcoholic beverage to imbibe. After I decide on some whiskey, I put the menu back and search for my seatbelt, trying to connect the two parts without success.
“You’re in my seat.”
The low tenor startles me, and I glance up at the man staring down at me with a look of irritation on his face. Which is too bad—his chiseled jaw, light hair, and ultramarine eyes would be attractive if it weren’t for his cantankerous expression.
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the row number. “I’m 5B,” I add, confused.
“Yes. And 5B is that seat, as the sign indicates,” he responds, his voice gritty and unfriendly. He gestures to the seat next to me, a look of cool calm on his striking face.
“Okay, I’ll move,” I respond, trying not to act put out. At least I’m moving to a window seat. The only downside is being stuck next to this prick for five hours. I’m already resenting the fact that Luca left earlier this morning to get a head start on some things. If he were here, at least we’d be sitting together, and I wouldn’t be seated with a stranger. “Sorry,” I cut out as I move my things one seat over, grunting as I attempt to remove my backpack from under the seat. The man doesn’t offer to help, nor does he say thank you—he just watches me with impatience as I pry the bag free and yelp as I tumble over the arm rest.
“I’m fine,” I say under my breath, huffing as I stuff the bag under the next seat and plop down.
He doesn’t respond, so I look out the window as he settles in.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him open his laptop and type quickly. He also happens to be leaning as far away from me as possible. I clench my jaw and subtly sniff myself—I don’t smell, do I? No, definitely not. And I’m positive I put on deodorant this morning. I pull my cardigan around me as tightly as possible, leaning away from him. Two can tango.
The boarding process takes a few more minutes, and the man next to me slides his computer into the back pocket of the seat in front of him, buckling himself in. He’s still leaning away from me, so I stare straight ahead, scowling.
Asshole.
We take off without a hitch, and by the time the flight attendant gets to our row, I’m bursting for some alcohol.
“I’ll have a water,” the man says next to me, and I glare at him before turning to the flight attendant.
“And I’ll have a double shot of whatever whiskey you have back there.”
“Sure thing,” the flight attendant says, giving us each a smile before he moves up a row.
“Wow,” the man mutters under his breath, and for a second, I’m not sure I hear him correctly.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice coming out louder than I had hoped.
“Interesting choice, considering it’s eleven in the morning.” He turns to look at me with his icy, stone-cold stare. “It would be a shame to spend the next five hours with someone who is inebriated, if you don’t mind.”
“I paid for this seat and I intend to enjoy it,” I reply, crossing my arms. “Though I guess that’ll be hard since I’m sitting next to you.”
His eyes flash with something heated—and they narrow ever so slightly as he pins his gaze on me.
“Feel free to move. I’m sure economy would be happy to have you.” He reaches for his computer and pulls it out. “I also paid for this seat, so how about we stop talking for the remainder of the flight?” he suggests, typing lightly.
Cool as a cucumber.
I nod, steam coming out of my ears. “Sounds great to me.”
When the flight attendant comes back, I make sure to order another double shot. When I glance at my seatmate, his jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t say anything. I sip my drink leisurely, enjoying the smoky taste of Jack Daniels, and the way every sip makes my fucks fly away further and further. We’re about thirty minutes into the flight when I realize I’m pretty tipsy, and maybe I should cool it on the whiskey. I press the call button for the attendant, and I enjoy the way the man—whom I’ve nicknamed Draco Malfoy—seems to get uncomfortable at the notion of me having more fun.
When the attendant walks over, I ask for a water and some tomato juice, just to see what Malfoy does. To my delight, his nostrils flare and he grinds his jaw, hitting the keys on his computer a little harder now.
This is getting fun.
Unfortunately for me, the plane jolts with turbulence a second later. Several people scream just as the red liquid soaks my lap.
Malfoy doesn’t react, though I swear I see the faintest hint of a smile on his face as I dab myself with the flimsy cocktail napkins.
