I’m one of the first people on board, so I give in to temptation and rifle through all the little goodies they’ve left me: mints, fuzzy socks, sleep mask, and—ooh—a little bag of skin care products. Next I play around with my seat, raising and lowering my privacy screen—that is until it makes an ominous-sounding click. The screen freezes an inch above the divider and refuses to rise again.

Cringing, I snatch my hand away and busy myself with removing my shoes and flipping through the first class menu. It’s long, and everything looks delicious. Oh man, how am I supposed to go back to the cattle-roundup, meat-or-chicken-in-a-tin hell that is economy class after this?

I’m debating whether to get a preflight champagne cocktail or glass of white wine when I hear the man’s voice. It’s deep, crisply British, and very annoyed.

“What is that woman doing in my seat?”

My neck tenses, but I don’t lift my head. I’m assuming he means me. His voice is coming from somewhere over my head, and there are only male passengers in here aside from me.

And he is wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m in my seat. I checked twice, pinched myself, checked again, and then finally sat down. I know I’m where I’m supposed to be—just not how I got away with it. My fingers grip the menu as I make a pretense of flipping through it. I’m really eavesdropping at this point. The flight attendant’s response is too low to hear, but his isn’t.

“I expressly purchased two seats on this flight. Two. So that I would not be seated next to anyone else.”

Well, that’s…decadent? Whacked? I struggle not to make a face. Who does that? Is it really so awful to sit next to someone? Has this guy seen economy? We can count each other’s nose hairs back there. Here, my chair is so wide, I’m a good foot away from his stupid chair.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the flight attendant answers in a near purr, which is weird. She should be annoyed. Maybe it’s all part of the kiss-the-first-class-passengers’-asses-because-they-paid-a-shit-ton-to-be-here program. “The flight is overbooked, and all seats are spoken for.”

“Which is why I purchased two seats,” he snaps.

She murmurs something soothing again. I can’t hear because two men walking past me to get to their seats are talking about stock options. They pass, and I hear Mr. Snooty again.

“This is unacceptable.”

A movement to my right, and I nearly jump. I see the red suit coat of the flight attendant as she bends close, her arm at the man’s screen button. Heat invades my cheeks, even as she starts to explain, “There’s a screen for privacy…”

She stops because the screen isn’t rising.

I burrow my nose in the menu.

“It doesn’t bloody work?” This from Snooty.

The rest goes just about as well as you’d expect. He rants, she placates, I hide between page one and two of the menu.

“Perhaps I can persuade someone to exchange seats?” The helpful flight attendant offers.

Yes, please. Fob him off on someone else.

“What difference does it make?” Snooty snaps. “The point was to have an empty seat next to mine.”

I’d love to suggest he wait for the next flight and save us all a headache, but that’s not in the cards. The standoff ends with the jerk plopping into his seat with an exasperated huff. He must be big, because I feel the whoosh of air as he does it.

And I feel the heat of his glare just before he turns away.

Fucker.

Slapping my menu down, I decide, Fuck it; I’m having some fun with this. What can they do? They’re loading the plane; my seat is secure.

I find a stick of gum in my purse and pop it in my mouth. A few chews and I have some superior gum-smacking going on. Only then do I turn his way.

And freeze mid-chew, momentarily stunned by the sight sitting next to me. Because, good God, no one has the right to be this hot and this much of a jerk. This guy is one-hundred-percent the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And it’s strange because his features aren’t perfect or gentle. No, they’re bold and strong—a jaw sharp enough to cut steel, firm chin, high cheekbones, and a bold nose that’s almost too big but fits his face perfectly.

I’d expected a whey-faced, graying aristocrat, but he’s tanned, his coal back hair falling over his brow. Sculpted, pouty lips are compressed in irritation as he scowls down at the magazine in his hand.

But he just as clearly feels my stare—the fact that I’m gaping like a speared fish probably doesn’t help—and he turns to glare. I’m hit with the full force of all that masculine beauty.

His eyes are aqua blue. His thick, dark brows draw together, a storm brewing on his face. He’s about to blast me. The thought hits along with another: I’d better make this good.

“Jesus,” I blurt out, lifting my hand as if to shield my eyes. “It’s like looking into the sun.”

“What?” he snaps, those laser-bright eyes narrowing.

Oh, this will be fun.

“Just stop, will you?” I squint at him. “You’re too hot. It’s too much to take.” This is true, though I’d never have the guts to say so in normal circumstances.

“Are you quite well?” he intones, as if he thinks the opposite.

“No, you’ve nearly rendered me blind.” I flap a hand. “Do you have an off switch? Maybe put it on low?”

His nostrils flare, his skin going a shade darker. “Lovely. I’m stuck next to a mad woman.”

“Don’t tell me you’re unaware of the dazzling effect you have on the world.” I give him a look of wide-eyed wonder. At least I hope that’s what I’m doing.

He flinches when I grasp the divider between us and lean in a bit. Hell, he smells good—like expensive cologne and fine wool. “You probably have women dropping at your feet like flies.”

“At least dropped flies are silent,” he mutters, furiously flipping through his magazine. “Madam, do me the favor of refraining from speaking to me for the remainder of the flight.”

“Are you a duke? You talk like a duke.”

His head jerks as if he wants to look my way but he manages to keep his gaze forward, his lips compressed so tightly they’re turning white at the edges. A travesty.

“Oh, or maybe a prince. I know!” I snap my fingers. “Prince Charming!”