Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
PARIS
I hate flying. I hate flying almost as much as I hate the thought of having to spend the next two weeks at my father and stepmother’s home before I can move into my new apartment.
I sigh as I look out the window at the plane that I’ll be boarding in just a few minutes.
The only plus to being my father’s daughter is that I, at least, get to fly first class.
Growing up on the Upper East Side, I was surrounded by kids whose parents owned private jets and houses on at least two continents.
I used to wish my father would buy one, but that all changed when Alec’s plane went down.
It had only been three years since my boyfriend piloted his small plane and never came home.
I’ve just recently felt ready to date again.
“Attention, passengers, flight four-thirty-seven with nonstop service to New York will begin boarding in ten minutes,” a woman says over a loudspeaker.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a man with a Southern accent says. I roll my eyes at his super-American-sounding voice. I hadn’t heard another American speaking English in at least three weeks since class ended, and I stayed to spend some time in Paris before having to return home to start my new job.
I glance over the top of my book at him.
My gaze travels up and then up some more.
This man is tall with broad shoulders and arm muscles that stretch his tailored jacket sleeves.
Damn, he’s super attractive. He’s at least ten years older than me, but he is impeccably dressed in a designer suit.
If he hadn’t spoken, I would have mistaken him for a European man.
His five o’clock shadow has a few gray hairs.
His neatly combed hair also sports some gray at his temples, but his face is free of wrinkles, telling me he’s older but not as old as my father.
He looks vaguely familiar. It takes me a minute, but I realize he looks like the asshat who got me and my friend kicked out of the VIP lounge at my favorite nightclub last week. So, naturally, I already hate him.
“Oui, monsieur,” the woman says. “How may I help you?”
“Is there a way to see if I have a row to myself?” he asks. “I’d prefer the legroom.”
I bet he would, I think to myself.
“I’m not sure. One moment,” she says as she clicks some buttons on a keyboard while glancing at what I assume is the boarding pass he’s showing her on his phone.
“I’m sorry. There are no seats left in first class that allow for two seats to be occupied by one person,” she explains.
“Can I speak to a supervisor?” the man says, annoyance clear in his voice.
“I’m sorry, monsieur. We could book you on a later flight, perhaps we can find two available seats on the next flight,” she says as she types on the computer.
“When is that?” he asks in a clipped voice. What an asshole!
“Let me see…six hours from now if you want to fly into JFK,” she states.
“Unacceptable,” he retorts.
“I can get you on a flight to Newark in two hours,” she offers.
“No, it’s too far away. There’s nothing on any other sister airlines that I can switch to?” he asks.
I raise an eyebrow. Clearly, this man is familiar with flying.
“No. You’d be flying standby if you did that,” she says.
He huffs. “Fine,” he says rudely and walks away, typing ferociously on his phone.
Damn, I hope I’m not sitting by him.