Chapter Text
1.
“You're in my seat.”
From the moment you set eyes upon the handsome rogue by the window, that shit eating smirk that tells you he's totally used to getting away with murder with women because of his ridiculously good looks–you resolve to teach him a lesson.
Not today, buddy.
Maybe it doesn't help that you are fresh off a breakup with the biggest asshole who ever walked the planet, but you are fresh out of patience for men and their bullshit.
“Aw, c’mon, darlin. Never been on a plane before.”
If he'd been a wide eyed child, you would have let him have it. But a fifty-something grown-ass man with that down-home country boy demeanor? No. Fucking. Way.
“Yeah, right. Don’t care, cowboy. Up.” You jerk your thumb skyward, winning an even wider grin that you hate to admit…makes you tingle inside.
With a low whistle he scooches over–one seat.
He makes you climb over him– and he is six feet plus of pure man and solid muscle and god–fuck this guy. He does not touch you, though he definitely checks you out as you’re practically straddling him and smirks with a smoldering heat in his dark eyes that makes your blood simmer.
Or maybe it's just good ol’ feminine rage.
Breakfast of champions. Never miss it.
You do your best to get settled, trying not to bump into him as he totally crowds you in your seat. You get less and less for your ticket these days, least of all, space. He is manspreading for fuck’s sake, and when his knee bumps yours for the second time you turn on him.
“Maybe you can sit over there,” you suggest, pointing with your chin at the aisle seat. “At least until they arrive.”
“Sorry, missy, no can do. Ticket says I'm seat B.” He offers you a panty-melting smile that makes you want to headbutt this man. Who the fuck told him to be so handsome? Tall, dark, with sparkling black eyes and great fucking hair and shoulders that really are too wide for the middle seat…
“Oh. So you do know how assigned seats work…” you snark.
“What? Do I look like I was born in a barn?”
Sounds like it, maybe, but definitely doesn't look it. He's wearing a nice suit, with tooled leather shit-kickers that may have cost more than your rent.
“So where ya headed?”
Alright, maybe this hick doesn't actually know how planes work.
“We’re all headed to the same place, buddy.”
He gives you a sideways look. “Ha ha. I mean after we land.”
You think about the seaside resort and your girlfriends who should be waiting for you, hopefully with drinks in hand. You have all earned this vacation.
“Paradise.”
You put in your earbuds, and hope he'll take the hint. He narrows his eyes at you, but concedes defeat with a smirk–for now.
No one takes the aisle seat–somehow, it must be the only vacant seat in the whole fucking flight–but he does not move. He invades your space continually, bumping you with his broad shoulder, or his knee, or his elbow when he ostentatiously sits up to stretch. You don’t give him the satisfaction of complaining though, and the truce lasts until around hour three, when Tall Dark and Dumbass falls asleep–on your shoulder.
And fuck you for being weak, but you are always freezing when you fly, and he is warm, and his hair is so soft, and he actually smells nice, like warm spices and man, and he’s not so bad when he’s actually quiet–and it takes you way longer than it should to elbow him in the side. “Hey.” When he only grumbles in answer you nudge him harder. “Hey.”
Most people would be embarrassed to wake up in such a situation. But this guy just smiles, a sleepy, sated far-too-familiar bedroom smile that you feel all the way in your pussy, your toes curling in your trainers. “Sorry. I was havin’ the sweetest dream.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Oh, believe it. You were there.”
“You need to go sit over there,” you say, pointing at the empty seat. “Or I’m calling the attendant.” Or maybe the Air Marshall. Someone with a gun would definitely be ideal.
This grown man pouts at you, full lip extended in a gesture that shouldn’t be cute but is, goddammit. “Aw, no need to get mean, honey. Fine, I’ll move.”
He flops over into the vacant space, all sad and pitiful and somehow by the end of it you feel like the asshole. But like he just can’t help himself, he leans over on the arm of the too-narrow middle seat, and once more you’re enveloped by that intoxicating cologne of his. It’s definitely not the sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes that makes you squirm in place. He is unfairly attractive, and he definitely knows it, and you resent the hell out of him and the army of butterflies fluttering around inside your heart.
Haven’t you learned your lesson about good-looking men yet?
Nothing but trouble.
“You know what you need?”
“A private plane?”
He lets out a bark of a laugh that startles an old lady across the aisle. “You’re funny, sweetheart. No. You need to relax. Let me buy you a drink.”
A long-suffering sigh evacuates your lungs. He’s not wrong. You intend to drink a lot, once you get where you’re going. But not before, because flying always gives you a headache, and navigating baggage and customs even on just a buzz sounds like a nightmare to you.
“No thanks.”
He takes it on the chin, and you guess you have to hand it to him because most men would write you off as a bitch and leave you alone. Some would even say it to your face.
“You know what else I think?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
He chuckles, a low sound that tugs at something unmentionable low in your belly.
“I’m not the one you’re really mad at.”
There’s still a shine in his eyes, but for the first time you get a glimpse of something sharp, astute, and possibly…dangerous in this man. Maybe beneath the aw shucks good ol’ boy act there’s a bit more complexity than what he offers at first glance–if you had any sense that should scare you.
You just sit there, holding his gaze, and a weird exhaustion settles over you like a weighted blanket. Maybe it’s just defeat.
“You might be right about that. Sorry.”
You weren’t always like this. But the trials of your last relationship have left you bitter, and sad, and apparently neurotic to the point where you’re ready to fight a stranger on a plane for looking at you like he finds you attractive. That hurts more than anything nasty or rude this man could have thrown at you, and you turn your face towards the window with a tightness in your throat that makes it hard to breathe. Do not start crying here you fucking idiot, you snarl at yourself.
You don’t owe this guy anything.
You are not obligated to give pieces of yourself to strangers for them to pass the time.
Looking back…it feels like most of the men in your life were just using you as a means to pass the time. Your heart was just collateral damage.
You close your eyes, willing this flight to go by faster, even as you can feel the stranger from seat B still looking at you. You’re sure that teasing look has turned into pity, or maybe contempt. You don’t open your eyes to find out, and mercifully you doze through the beverage service, only rousing when the attendants roll through to pick up trash.
Your nemesis is still there (well, where else would he be?) and you blink stupidly when he extends something towards you, your eyes refusing to focus.
“Saved you a cookie,” he says with that smirk, and maybe…this time, it softens something inside you that turned to stone over the past year.
“Thanks,” you say quietly, accepting the little wrapped biscuit like you forgot how your hand works, your fingers brushing his.
“I'm Tex, by the way.”
A beat passes before you reluctantly offer, “Y/n,” …and you hope you won't regret it.
TBC...