A low, masculine groan sounded beside me as the man attempted to shove his bag in the tiny overhead bin. While he struggled, jostling the seat and making an obscene amount of noise, my patience wore thin.

By the time he finally sat down, his shoulder bumping against mine in the process, any composure I had left was gone. My leg bounced rhythmically, and I picked at the fraying hem of my shorts.

“Anxious flier?”

The deep voice resonated beside me, and as someone who listened to podcasts regularly, I could appreciate a good rich voice.

“Yup.”

My tone was clipped, no doubt seeming rude. But, I needed this guy to know he did not have permission to talk my ear off for the next four hours. I had to let him know upfront that I had no interest in conversations that went further than, "Hello, how are you?" Like when you dig in your purse in Target to avoid speaking to your OB-GYN.

“You should have pregamed in the airport bar. You could be riding a nice buzz right now instead of thinking of everything wrong with the plane.”

Oh God, was there something wrong with the plane?

“Mhm, sure.”

I leaned my head back into the seat, probably ruining my perfectly styled blonde hair. I had a blowout yesterday and should’ve known this would happen. Rookie mistake. My fists were tightly bound on the small armrests, blood rising to my face.

“Or you could have smoked a little right before.”

My ears felt hot, and I bounced my leg faster. Who did this guy think he was?

He continued. “Maybe eat a little pot brownie or something?”

I abruptly lifted my mask in frustration. “Look, dude, I—” Oh. Oh.

My complaints died on the tip of my tongue when I caught sight of the man sitting next to me.

He was gorgeous; the thick waves of his dark brown hair were perfectly placed, and his full lips were tilted in a mischievous smirk. His eyes reminded me of rich, dark chocolate on the outer circle and warm caramel in the center. Like a Ghirardelli square calling my name in the middle of a Keto diet. His long legs, which looked uncomfortably squished in these Smurf-sized seats, were clad in black sweatpants. My eyes surveyed his lean body, cataloging his big hands and the way his chest filled out his army green tee with just the right amount of muscle.

If this were a few years ago, I may have taken the opportunity to charm a man like this and possibly try to join the mile-high club. However, I was long past those admittedly wild days, so for now I admired him from afar. Or I guess, not so far given the tiny size of these seats.

“I am doing just fine, thank you,” I said, my voice hushed and gruff.