“Here, let me help you.” A guy around my age in a tailored business suit stepped forward to assist but was brusquely brushed aside by the Scot as he stood up, dwarfing us both.
“I’ve got it.” He grabbed the carry-on out of my hand. “Safer I do it or I’ll land in Chicago with a concussion.”
“Well, that would be a shame.” I skirted past him so I could slide into my seat while he dealt with my luggage.
I’d already removed my e-reader from my carry-on for the plane ride and had it booting up before the Bastard Scot got back in the seat beside me. And even though there was a double arm divider between us with little cup holders in them, he still managed to make me feel overwhelmed by his size.
My plan had been to sink right into a good book and get on with my life like I wasn’t sitting next to an uncivilized, too-attractive-for-his-own-good guy who definitely had to have some Viking blood in his genetic history. I was going to ignore him because I was certain he’d say something rude about the weight of my luggage. However, I didn’t get the chance to slight him because he did it to me first. He pulled out the table from the side of his seat and propped a laptop open on it. And he acted like I didn’t even exist.
“Mr. Scott.” The flight attendant who had greeted me when I entered the plane appeared above us with a tray of drinks in his hand. “Can I offer you a preflight drink? Champagne?”
“Water.” Mr. Scott—the Bastard Scot—responded in what seemed to be his typical abrupt fashion.
The flight attendant handed him a glass of water and then smiled at me. “Miss Breevort?”
“Champagne, please,” I responded instantly, throwing my neighbor a filthy look for being discourteous. “Thank you.” Again, I don’t know why, but I’d expected commentary from the Bastard Scot as I reached in front of his face for the glass of bubbly. But there was nothing.
My toes twitched with irritation, and my fingers gripped tight to the glass with annoyance as I sipped the champagne. I side-eyed Mr. Scott as he sipped his water with one hand and tapped the mouse pad on his laptop with the other.
I should have been glad he was ignoring me, but for some reason that felt as insulting as his behavior in the airport.
I didn’t want to admit it, but his indifference bothered me. I’d spent the last few days being ignored by people in my hometown of Arcadia. And I mean treated as if I was invisible.
As much as I told myself I didn’t care, it stung.
And now here I was being treated to the same by a complete stranger who had obviously made a snap judgment about me. That shouldn’t have irritated me, but I was tired, I’d had a tough week, and it did royally annoy the crap out of me.
I glared out of the corner of my eye at him, my gaze drifting to the laptop screen his eyes were glued to. A wave of surprise moved through me. He clicked between tabs—spreadsheets with figures, complicated drawings that looked like technical specs, dense documents, e-mails. All of which suggested the Bastard Scot was more business guy than motorcycle gang member.
“Planning a big bank heist?” I said before I could caution myself against engaging in another verbal battle with him.
His stunning gaze turned my way. Confusion mingled with aggravation radiated from those unusual eyes.
I pointed to his laptop in answer to his silent question.
He looked back at it and then at me. The confusion left his expression, abandoning the aggravation that seemed to grow into full-blown vexation. “Do you always put your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“Well, if you don’t want anyone realizing you’re planning to rob a bank, you should probably hide the plans.”
“It’s my work,” he bit out.
“You’re a businessman?”
Somehow his reply was sarcastic without even saying a word. I took his silent retort for a yes.
“You don’t look it.”
“Aye, well, it doesn’t surprise me someone like you would judge people based on what they look like.” He sneered. “He’s covered in tattoos, doesn’t wear a suit, so of course he’s a criminal rather than a businessman, right?”
“You do realize you’re doing what you accused me of doing? You’re judging me based on what I look like. Come to think of it, you have been doing that since the first time we ran into each other at the airport. Also … if you can afford to fly first class, you can afford to buy a sense of humor. And I would get on that because you’re in serious need of one.”
“How am I judging you based on what you look like?”
“ ‘Someone like you,’ you said, right?” I cocked my head to the side as I studied his rugged—and right now harsh—countenance.
He gave me a taut nod.
“You don’t know me. You met me a few hours ago in an airport, where admittedly people don’t always act like their normal selves because of high levels of stress, fatigue, and often fear of flying. So if you don’t know who I am as a person, the only logical conclusion I can draw is that you’re judging me based on what I look like and not on who I am.”
The Bastard Scot contemplated me a moment. “True,” he finally said. “To a certain extent. But you can often tell a lot about a person from the way he or she looks. It’s just whether or not you’re intuitive enough tae get it right. You saw tattoos and thought—what … motorcycle club?”
I tried not to blush, squirming uncomfortably that he’d guessed correctly.
“And you were wrong about me. But you are right, I dinnae know you, but I can tell by the time you spent on your hair and makeup, on the money you spent on your suit, on those designer shoes, the diamonds in your ears and around your wrist, that for whatever reason—and I dinnae know what those reasons are—you care what people think about your appearance. By the weight of the carry-on I just stuffed in the overheard bin I’d also say you overpack, which along with how you look, suggests you’re high maintenance. And I would be very, very surprised if I’d gotten that wrong about you.”
His tone more than the words caused a heat in my cheeks brought on by hurt feelings. “So you think you’re better than me because you don’t care about your appearance?”
“I didn’t say I dinnae care about my appearance. I care. I’m covered in tattoos that say I care. I just dinnae care what anyone else thinks about my appearance.”
“Well, maybe that’s how I feel. I like to look well presented. It’s got nothing to do with anyone else.”
His answering expression suggested he didn’t believe me and it bothered me that I cared. So I scoffed, “I don’t care what you think of me.”
“Of course you do. I’m probably the first straight man you’ve ever met who hasn’t fallen at your feet.” His eyes scanned my face first before moving down the length of my body in a way that made me involuntarily shiver.
That only made his words more provoking. They prodded an old hurt that had already been reawakened this week. I was determined to bury it where it belonged and did not need this stranger messing with my efforts. “You accuse me of being judgmental, but you are way more judgmental than me.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say I wasn’t. I’m just usually right. And I’m right about you.”