“Miss, I’m going to ask you to calm down and wait your turn. Although we have a very full flight today, I can put you on our list and if a first-class seat opens up before the flight, we will let you know.”
Yeah, because the way my week was going that was likely.
“I was first,” I insisted, my skin flushing because my blood had turned so hot with anger at the unfairness. “He whacked me with his laptop bag pushing past me to cut in line.”
“Can we just ignore this tiny, angry person and upgrade me now?” the deep accented voice said somewhere above my head to my right.
His condescension finally drew my gaze to him.
And everything suddenly made sense.
A modern day Viking towered over me, my attention drawing his from the flight attendant to me. His eyes were the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Ice blue and piercing against the rugged tan of his skin, the irises like pale blue glass bright against the sun streaming in through the airport windows. His hair was dark blonde, short at the sides and longer on top. And even though he was not my type, I could admit his face was entirely masculine and attractive covered with a short, dark blonde beard. It wasn’t so much a beard as a thick growth of stubble. He had a beautiful mouth, a thinner, masculine top lip but a full, sensual lower lip that gave him a broody, boyish pout at odds with his ruggedness. Gorgeous as his mouth may be, it was currently curled upwards at the corner in displeasure.
And did I mention he was built?
The offensive laptop bag was slung over a set of shoulders so broad they would have made a football coach weep with joy. I was guessing he was just a little over six feet, but his build made him look taller. I was only five foot three but I wore four inch stilettos, and yet, I felt like Tinkerbell next to this guy.
Tattoos I didn’t take time to study peeked out from under the rolled-up sleeve of his Henley shirt. A shirt that showed off the kind of muscle a guy didn’t achieve without copious visits to the gym.
A fine male specimen, indeed.
I rolled my eyes and shot the flight attendant a knowing, annoyed look. “Really?” It was clear to me motorcycle-gang-member-Viking-dude was getting preferential treatment here.
“Miss, please don’t make me call security.”
My lips parted in shock. “Melodramatic much?”
“You.” The belligerent rumble in the Viking’s voice made me bristle.
I looked up at him.
He sneered. “Take a walk, wee yin.”
Being deliberately obtuse I retorted, “I don’t understand Scandinavian.”
“I’m Scottish.”
“Do I care?”
He muttered something unintelligible and turned to the flight attendant. “We done?”
The guy gave him a flirty smile and handed him his ticket and passport. “You’re upgraded, Mr. Scott.”
“Wait, what—” But the Viking had already taken back his passport and ticket and was striding away.
His long legs covered more ground than mine but I was mad and I could run in my prized Jimmy Choo stilettos. So I did. With my carry on bumping along on its wheels behind me.
“Wait a second!” I grabbed the Viking’s arm and he swung around so fast I tottered.
I quickly regained balance, shrugging my suit jacket back into place as I grimaced. “You should do the right thing here and give me that seat.” I didn’t know why I was being so persistent. Maybe because I’d always been frustrated when I saw someone else endure an injustice. Or maybe I was just sick of being shit on this week.
His expression, if I’d captured it with my phone camera, would have made the perfect ‘what the fuck’ gif. “Are ye kidding me with this?” I didn’t even try not to take offense. Everything about this guy offended me.
“You,” I gestured to him, saying the word slowly so his tiny brain could compute, “Stole. My. Seat.”
“You,” he pointed down at me, “Are. A. Nutjob.”
Appalled, I gasped. “One, that is not true. I am hangry. There is a difference. And two, that word is completely politically incorrect.”
He stared off into the distance above my head for a moment, seeming to gather himself. Or maybe just his patience. I think it was the latter because when he finally looked down at me with those startling eyes of his, he sighed. “Look, ye’d almost be funny if it werenae for the fact that ye’er completely unbalanced. And I’m not in the mood after having tae fly from Glasgow tae London and London tae Phoenix and Phoenix tae Boston instead of London to Boston because my PA is a useless prat that clearly hasnae heard of international direct flights. So do us both a favor before I say or do something I’ll regret . . . and walk. Away.”
“You don’t regret calling me a nutjob?”
His answer was to walk away.
I slumped in defeat, watching him stride off with the first-class ticket that should have been mine.
Deciding food and coffee could wait until I’d freshened up in the restroom—and by freshen up I meant pull myself together—I wandered off to find the closest one. Staring out of the airport window at Camelback Mountain, I wished to be as far from Phoenix as possible as quickly as possible. That was really the root of my frustration and a little mortification began to set in as I made my way into the ladies’ restroom. I’d just taken my emotional turmoil out on a Scottish stranger. Sure, the guy was terminally rude, but I’d turned it into a “situation”. Normally I would have responded by calmly asking the flight attendant when the next flight to Boston was and if there was a first class seat available on that.
But I was just so desperate to go home.
After using the facilities, I washed up and stared long and hard into the mirror. I longed to splash cold water on my face but that would mean ruining the makeup I’d painstakingly applied that morning.
Checking myself over, I teased my fingers through the waves I’d put in my long blonde hair with my straightening iron. Once I was happy with it, I turned my perusal on my outfit. The red suit was one of my nicest. A peplum, double-breasted jacket and a matching knee-length pencil skirt. Since the jacket looked best closed, I only wore a light, silk ivory camisole underneath it. I didn’t even know why I’d packed the suit but I’d been wearing black for the last few days and the red felt like an act of defiance. Or a cry for help. Or maybe more likely an act of denial.
Although I had a well-paid job within an exclusive interior design company as one of their designers, it was expensive to live in Boston. The diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist was a gift on my eighteenth birthday from Nick. For a while I’d stopped wearing it, but exuding an image of wealth and success to my absurdly wealthy and successful clients was important, so when I started my job I’d dug the bracelet out of storage, had it cleaned up, and it had sat on my wrist ever since.
Lately, just looking at it cut me to the quick.
Flinching, I tore my gaze from where it winked in the light on my wrist, to my right wrist where my Gucci watch sat. It was a bonus from my boss, Stella, after my first year on the job.
As for the black suede Jimmy Choos on my feet with their sexy stiletto and cute ankle strap, they were one of many I was in credit card debt over. If I lived anywhere but Boston, I would have been able to afford as many Choos as I wanted on my six-figure salary. But my salary went into my hefty monthly rent bill.
It was a cute, bijou six hundred square foot apartment but it was in Beacon Hill. Mount Vernon Street to be exact, a mere few minutes’ walk from Boston Common. It also cost me just over four thousand dollars a month in rent. That didn’t include the rest of my bills and keeping up a stylish appearance. I had enough to put some savings away after the tax man took his cut too, but I couldn’t afford to indulge in the Choos I wanted.
So, yes, I had some credit card debt.
But I guessed that made me like most of my fellow countrymen and women, right? I sta
red at my immaculate reflection, ignoring the voice in my head that said some of those folks had credit card debt because of medical bills, or because they needed to feed their kids that week.
Not so they could stay in a ridiculously overpriced area of Boston (no matter how much I loved it there) and wear designer shoes so her clients felt like they were dealing with someone who understood their wants better.
I threw away the thought, not needing to mentally berate myself any more than I had since arriving back in Phoenix. I was perfectly happy with my life before I came here.
Perfectly happy with my perfect apartment, and my perfect hair, and my perfect shoes!
Perfect was good.
I straightened my jacket and grabbed hold of the handle of my carry on.
Perfect was control.
Staring at the pretty picture I made in the mirror I felt myself relax. If the flight attendant had been into women, I so would have gotten that first class seat.
“But forget it,” I whispered. It was done.
I was going to go back out there and get a much-needed delicious Mediterranean-style salad and sandwich from one of my favorite food stops in Phoenix, Olive & Ivy. Feeling better at the thought, I relaxed.
Once I stopped being hangry it would all be fine.
2
Apparently, the universe didn’t hate me because there was a seat free at Olive & Ivy. It was popular so it didn’t surprise me that there was only one stool left at one of the counters around the small restaurant. The young twenty-something woman sitting next to the open chair looked up as I approached, her dark gaze skimming down my body and back up again. A flirtatious welcome smile lit up her face. Huh. I had hope her obvious interest meant she would hold the seat for me while I ordered food. I rounded her, feeling her follow the movement. I was just about to ask her to keep the seat for me when the thump of a laptop bag on top of the counter at the open seat caused me to flinch.
“This seat is taken.”
I squeezed my eyes closed at the familiar voice.
No way.
Nuh uh!
No!
I whirled around and stared up at the source of irritation that had recently entered my life. “Yes, it is. By me!”
The Scot’s stare was calm, stolidly so, annoyingly so. “Have ye bought food from here yet? Because I have. As a paying customer, I think I take precedence over a tiny, entitled fruitcake with a stick up her arse.”
I glowered up at the ceiling a.k.a The Universe. “This is not happening.”
“Aye, cause ye’er not a fruitcake, talking to yerself.”
My glare transferred to him. “Again with the totally un-PC language.”
“Babe, look at me,” he curled his lip. “I am un-PC.”
“Don’t ‘babe’ me. That is incredibly overfamiliar of you.”
He bent his head toward me, those icy blue eyes momentarily freezing me to the spot. “And I am not having another altercation with ye in public. Now fucking shoo.”
He just shooed me?
Shooed me!
The Scot pulled the stool out forcefully so I had to move back or be clobbered by it. He assessed my surprised expression and his countenance, to my confusion, transformed from merely irritated to total disdain. “I realize ye’er probably used tae men falling at yer feet, so I’ll let ye have yer two seconds of shocked horror. But if ye’er not gone in five seconds, I’m gonna embarrass the fuck out of ye.”
“You say fuck a lot,” was the only thing I could think to say under the onslaught of such distaste for me.
His face clouded over. “Five. Four. Three—”
I made a sound of disgust, cutting him off, and was about to walk away when the twenty-something woman next to us placed a hand on my arm to stop me. “I’m just finishing up, if you’d like my seat.”
I gave her a sweet smile. “You’re so kind, but,” my voice grew louder, “I’d rather sew my eyes shut with cocktails sticks than sit next to an ill-educated dickhole who defies the rumor that Scottish people are the nicest people in the world.” I finished it with a triumphant spin that made my hair flip dramatically, and I would have continued to feel like the ‘last-epic-word’ victor if I hadn’t heard a ragged, too-attractive chuckle, that I knew originated from the Scotsman.
That chuckle made me falter visibly.
He couldn’t even let me storm off in style!
Samantha Young is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the On Dublin Street series, including Moonlight on Nightingale Way, Echoes of Scotland Street, and Fall from India Place, and the Hart’s Boardwalk series, including Every Little Thing and The One Real Thing, as well as the standalone novel Hero.
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Samantha Young, The One Real Thing
(Series: On Dublin Street # 6.70)
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