The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(2)

I hand my ticket over to the flight attendant. “Just through the left aisle and to the right.”

“Thanks.” I look at my ticket and walk through the plane and see my number.

1B.

Damn it, I don’t have a window. I get to my seat, and a man sitting next to the window turns to me. Big blue eyes greet me, and he smiles. “Hello.”

“Hi,” I say.

Oh no . . . I’m sitting next to God’s gift to women . . . only he’s hotter.

I look like shit. Fuck it.

I open the overhead, and he stands. “Here, let me.” He takes my bag from me and carefully places it up. He’s tall and built and wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt; he smells like the best aftershave in history.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I pull my hand through my ponytail, trying to smooth out the knots. I mentally kick myself for not wearing something better.

“Do you want the window seat?” he asks.

I stare at him as my brain misfires.

He gestures to the seat beside the window.

“You don’t mind?” I frown.

“Not at all.” He smiles. “I fly all the time. You can have it.”

I force a smile. “Thanks.” That was code for “I know you got upgraded, you poor homeless person, and I feel sorry for you.” I sit down in my seat and look nervously out the window, with my hands clasped in front of me on my lap.

“Are you going home?” he asks.

I turn to him. Oh, please don’t talk to me. You make me nervous just sitting there. “No, I’ve been at a wedding, and I have a job interview in New York on the way home. I’m only there for the day, and then I fly out again to LA. I live there.”

“Ah.” He smiles. “I see.”

I stare at him for a moment; I should ask him a question now. “Are . . . you going home?” I say.

“Yes.”

I nod, unsure what to say next, so I choose the lame option and stare back out the window.

The attendant walks around with a bottle of champagne and glasses.

Glasses. Since when do airlines give you a real glass?

Oh right, first class. I knew that.

“Would you like some champagne to take off with, sir?” the flight attendant asks him. I notice that her name tag says JESSICA.

“That would be lovely.” He smiles and turns to me. “Make that two, please.”

I frown as she pours two glasses of champagne and passes one to him and one to me. “Thank you.” I smile.

I wait for Jessica to move out of earshot. “Do you always order drinks for other people?” I ask.

He looks surprised by my statement. “Did it bother you?”

“Not at all,” I huff. Damn this Mr. Fancy Pants for thinking he can order for me. “I do like to order my own drinks, though.”

He smiles. “Well, you can order the next ones, then.” He raises his glass to me and smirks; then he takes a sip. He seems amused by my annoyance.

I stare at him deadpan. This could be victim number two of my cutting today. I am not in the mood for some rich old bastard to boss me around. I sip my champagne as I look out the window. Well, he’s not really old. Maybe mid-to late thirties. I mean, old compared to me; I’m twenty-five. But whatever.

“I’m Jim,” he says as he holds his hand out to shake mine.

Oh God, now I have to be polite. I shake his hand. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”

His eyes dance with mischief. “Hello, Emily.”

His eyes are big, bright blue, and dreamy, the kind I could get lost in. But why is he looking at me like that?

The plane begins to travel slowly down the runway, and I look between the earphones and armrest. Where do these plug in? They’re high tech, the kind that overconfident YouTubers use. They don’t even have a cord. I look around. Well, this is stupid. How do I plug them in?

“They’re Bluetooth,” Jim interrupts me.

“Oh,” I mutter, feeling stupid. Of course they are. “Right.”

“You haven’t flown first class before?” he asks.

“No. I got an upgrade. Some weirdo threw my bag across the airport when he was drunk. I think the guy at the desk felt sorry for me.” I give him a lopsided smile.

He rolls his lips as if amused and sips his champagne; his eyes linger on my face as if he has something on his mind.

“What?” I ask.

“Perhaps the guy at the desk thought you were gorgeous and upgraded you to try to impress you.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” I sip my champagne as I try to hide my smile. That’s an odd thing to say. “Is that what you would do?” I ask. “If you were at the desk, would you upgrade women to impress them?”

“Absolutely.”

I smirk.

“Impressing a woman you’re attracted to is crucial,” he continues.

I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up with the conversation. Why does that statement sound flirty? “And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated.

His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.”

The air crackles between us, and I bite my lip to hide my goofy smile.

“You’re trying to impress me?” I ask.