One where my boss is nice and looks at me as if I were precious? Butterflies flutter in my chest as I get a whiff of his scent. Woodsy and manly. Emotion swells from my chest.

For God’s sake, Claire, get a grip!

It’s been so long since a man has been nice to me that I’m having trouble remembering who he really is.

“Hey,” I say, my voice sounding gruff.

When I try to straighten up, I flinch. My head pounds as if little gnomes are tap-dancing inside.

“It’s the wine,” he says, handing me a bottle of water. “Do you have any aspirin in your bag of tricks?”

I shut my eyes, resting my head on the seat and nod lightly.

“Why do you need a notebook?”

“Leave my stuff alone,” I warn him weakly. “The painkillers are in the side pocket.”

“Breath mints, ibuprofen, allergy medicine … you label them?”

“Duh,” I answer. “What if I took the wrong medication? Leave my purse alone.”

“You’re a cross between Mary Poppins and Sport Billy,” he says, handing me two liquid gel pills and water.

“Who’s Sport Billy?” I ask after I swallow the medicine and drink the entire bottle of water.

“You wouldn’t know it. It’s a cartoon from before your time,” he says, taking his seat again.

I sigh and rub my temples, keeping my eyes closed to recover my strength. During the first half of the flight, I lost the ability to see Miller Archer as the asshole who runs the company I work for. A part of me wants to yell at him for putting me in this predicament, and the other wants to snuggle between his strong arms until my headache abates.

Claire, stop fantasizing. You just need to get laid.

Note to self, don’t drink and fly.

“You shouldn’t have let me drink so much,” I mumble under my breath.

It’s all my fault. I should’ve stopped as soon as I felt tipsy. The entire flight went by too fast. One moment we were discussing our weekend agreement over lunch, and the next, I agreed to be his plus one.

“I told you not to switch your liquor. Always stick to the same drink,” he says in the calm voice he’s been using for the past few hours.

He isn’t criticizing. In fact, those deep dark eyes of his seem to hold worry. Since when does he give a shit about others?

Drop the nice guy act, I want to say.

Once the flight attendant announces we can unfasten our seat belts, he stands up, fixing his backpack and fetching my purse.

“I’ll carry this for you,” he says, extending his hand toward me. “Let me help you.”