The urge to prove him wrong was so strong and yet all that proved was that he was right. I cared too much what people thought. Despite his dismissal of me, of how much it opened old wounds, I decided the best thing I could do was just ignore him as previously planned.
I drank the rest of the champagne and put the empty glass in the cup holder beside me. The Bastard Scot turned back to his laptop like he hadn’t just insulted me. Again.
Truthfully, I’d never met a more impolite, ill-mannered, impertinent man in my life.
Trying to ignore his existence, I opened up my current book on my e-reader, my body humming with awareness of the large guy beside me and growing steadily more pissed off about it. I hated that I kept getting faint whiffs of cologne—a decidedly delicious musky, woodsy, spicy scent that suited the bastard way too much. After I’d read the same paragraph for the fifth time, relief flooded me when my phone started to buzz in my suit pocket.
“That’s supposed tae be switched off,” he grumbled beside me.
I sniffed in derision as I pulled the cell out of my pocket. “The man who is trying so hard to prove he doesn’t care what other people think of him is a stickler for the rules? Shocking.”
Watching his lips pinch in annoyance gave me more pleasure than it should. Pleasure that transformed from smug to tender at the sight of the name on my phone screen. “Hey, sweetie,” I answered.
“I’m sorry I missed your call. Lunch hour, you know.” Harper’s voice made me instantly relax. My best friend’s voice on the other end of the line had kept me sane these past few days.
“I just called to tell you my flight got canceled. I’m on a flight to Chicago, but I’ll have to stay overnight at O’Hare. My flight home isn’t until tomorrow morning.”
“What happened?”
“Some volcano in Iceland.”
“I thought that was just affecting European flights?”
“Apparently not.”
“Huh. That sucks. You okay?”
Aware of the man sitting next to me, I turned slightly toward the window and lowered my voice. “I just want to get home.”
“I should have come with you.” Harper’s voice was filled with regret.
“No, sweetie. I had to do this alone. We both know that.”
“We both don’t know that. You are always there for me. You should have let me be there for you with this.”
Maybe I should have. But the truth was, I didn’t want the way I was treated back in Phoenix to affect Harper’s perception of me. She knew my side of the story, of course, but I was afraid that all those people would somehow convince her everything was my fault. And it wasn’t my fault. It was a ridiculous fear, because Harper loved me, but still it had snuck under my skin. “You didn’t have to be there for me to be there for me.”
Harper sighed. “Okay, babe. Just call or text me when you land in Chicago and let me know when your flight gets in at Logan tomorrow. I’ll see if I can cut out of work to come get you.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Well, I want to, so shut it.”
I laughed softly. “Okay. I’ll call you. Bye, sweetie.”
“Bye, babe.”
When I hung up, switching my phone off, I could have sworn I felt the Bastard Scot’s eyes on me. When I glanced over at him, however, he was frowning at his computer screen.
The announcement that we were getting ready for takeoff came over the PA and we were asked to stow away larger devices like laptops. I surreptitiously watched my obnoxious neighbor as he put away his laptop and settled back in his seat.
He closed his eyes, and I used the moment to study him. The sleeves of his henley were still rolled up, so I could see up close some of the tattoos on his left arm. In among smoke, dust, and what looked like debris from buildings was a modern-day soldier running with his rifle. Above him there was what looked like the foot of another figure, but the rest of it was hidden by his shirt. My wayward gaze moved upward to his interesting face. His lashes were a fair golden brown color, so I hadn’t realized how long they were until now. His full, pouty lower lip surrounded by that short beard drew my attention. Stubble was usually a turnoff for me, but I had to admit the pain in the ass suited his.
I wondered if it scratched or tickled when he kissed a woman.
The mere thought caused a tingle between my legs that shocked me.
Flushing at the thought, I wrenched my gaze off his face, intending to return to ignoring him and the physical response he’d elicited in me, when my eyes caught on his big hand curled around the arm divider.
Not curled.
Gripped.
Tight.
White-knuckled.
Looking back at his face, I saw the wrinkle between his brow and the slight flare of his nostrils.
Was the badass Scotsman afraid of flying?
I was instantly reminded of Harper. She was terrified of flying. We’d gone on vacation with each other a few times to Europe, and every time I’d felt powerless to help her. She was a ball of nervous energy as soon as we boarded an airplane, pale and trembling until we were up in the air. Even then she’d stay tense in her seat, her whole body clenched with fear. On long flights, I’d walk her to the bathroom and stand outside the door for her, a constant reassurance. Still, I hated how scared she was. I’d even tried to convince her to vacation in the States in places we could drive to. But Harper never let fear control her. That was one of the things I admired most about her.
Reminded of my friend, I felt an unwanted and unwarranted sympathy flood me.
“Excuse me,” I called to the flight attendant as he was passing. I saw the Scot’s eyes fly open out of the corner of my own. “May I have another glass of champagne?”
“We’re getting ready to take off, Miss Breevort.”
“I’ll be super quick. Promise.”
He didn’t look happy about it, but returned quickly with a glass for me. I smiled my thanks and then turned to the Scot, whose eyes were closed again. “Drink up.” I held the glass out to him.
Those icy blues flew open. “What?”
I shoved the glass toward him. “It’ll help.”
He lifted his head, grimacing. “What are you talking about?”
“Is it a fear of flying or just of taking off?”
Instead of answering, he shot me another baleful look. “I don’t drink champagne.”
“You’ll drink this. It isn’t whiskey, but it might take the edge off.”
When he ignored me, I sighed. “Jesus, I don’t think you’re any less of an alpha pain in the ass because you’re afraid of flying.”
At that he snatched the glass out of my hand and threw back the entire lot. Wiping droplets off his lips, he glowered at me. “It’s just the takeoff and landing.”
The words were bitten out, and I had to quell a smile. “I’m not surprised. A plane isn’t exactly a longboat.”
His lips twitched. “Scot. Not Scandinavian.”
“If you’re telling me you don’t have an ounce of Scandinavian blood, I don’t believe you.”
The flight attendant appeared to take the empty glass, but my seatmate didn’t even seem to notice as he was too busy staring at me like I was suddenly a puzzle. “Swedish.”