A fine male specimen, indeed.

I rolled my eyes and shot the agent 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 Scan- dinavian.”

“I’m Scottish.”

“Do I care?”

He muttered something unintelligible and turned to the agent. “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 moti- vated and I could run in my stilettos. So I did. With my carry-on bumping along on its wheels behind me.

“Wait a second!” I grabbed the man’s arm and he swung around so fast, I tottered.

Quickly, I regained balance and shrugged 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 pushed around this week.

His expression was incredulous. “Are you 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, he sighed. “Look, you would be almost funny if it weren’t for the fact that you’re 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 tae Boston because my PA is a useless prat who clearly hasn’t 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.