Chapter 1
GRIPPING ONTO MY ticket, I mop the sweat from my forehead.
My flight from Amsterdam was delayed, which almost made me miss my connecting flight in London.
Almost. Switching flights at Heathrow turned chaotic in a hurry.
Turns out a Dutch passport, let alone one that was issued in Amsterdam, is quite the red flag when it comes to random security screenings.
The man must be in his mid-twenties, a little younger than I am.
His legs are spread out wide and he’s dressed in a pair of worn-out jeans with big rips at the knees.
It’s a trend I never really understood. Why would you pay money for wrecked pants?
Around his neck is a pair of big headphones.
He’s committed to staring through the window, so all I can see is the profile of his face.
His dark, medium-length hair is not quite long enough to tie back and tumbles loosely around his face.
I clear my throat, but he keeps staring out of the window, clearly unaware that he’s sitting in my spot.
Ahem, I try again, a little louder this time.
That gets his attention. For a moment, I forget I was about to kick him out of my seat and I kind of want to suggest crawling into his lap instead.
His eyes are breathtaking. A greeny brown.
Is that what hazel is? Either way, I’ve never seen anyone who so clearly had this exact eye colour.
There’s a curl to his long, dark lashes and he’s wearing .
. . eyeliner? He looks like Captain Jack Sparrow, but less dishevelled.
A little rugged, but still put together.
Not usually the type to leave me tongue-tied.
I’m typically drawn to men in suits, with hair parted to one side, if I’m being extra particular.
Yessss . . . ? he finally asks after I’ve been silent for ten seconds. He sounds irritated. His voice is a little raspy, maybe even sexy. He raises a sleek eyebrow and runs a hand through his hair. There’s a small silver hoop in his ear.
I clear my throat again and toss him my sweetest smile. You’re in my seat. I set him straight by waving my ticket in front of his face. I’m in 23A.
Jack Sparrow frowns, but he doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring at me, stone-faced. It’s making me nervous. I swallow and give him a pleading look. I don’t like confrontation.
So, ummm . . . I start again. Do you think maybe you could move to your own seat?
He’s about to reply when a flight attendant walks by.
Everything alright over here? she asks.
I wonder if flight-attendant training includes smiling lessons. It’s almost frightening how perfect they are most of the time.
The seat pirate lets out a deep sigh, nods, and shifts over to the middle seat. He drums the heels of his Doc Martens on the floor. It sounds like Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones.
I look at him, stunned. Does he want me to clamber over him? His legs are long and the way he’s sitting doesn’t exactly leave me much wiggle room.
It takes some effort to hoist my bag into the storage bin above our seats and I feel my shirt creep up a little.
When I close the bin, I realize the man is gawking at me.
Yanking my top back down, I study the human-shaped obstacle positioned between me and my window seat.
He catches me looking, then shifts his legs a minuscule amount as some kind of invitation for me to show off my monkey-bar skills.
I pull myself together and begin my attempt to climb over him.
In contrast to this leggy captain right here, I am a shortypants with shorty legs.
Carefully, I lift one leg over his, barely getting my foot to touch the ground on the other side.
When I lift my second leg, I lose my balance, landing astride his lap with a squeal.
He looks entertained as I slip closer. We end up face to face, mere inches apart, and I’m frozen in time for a beat.
Shit.
A microscopic smile appears on his full lips.
I silently swear as I look into his eyes. They’re more gorgeous than I realized now that I’m seeing them up close. His iris is outlined in a soft brown that becomes paler as it morphs into more of a green toward his pupil.
Suddenly, his eyes grow narrow and his expression takes on a hint of arrogance. A corner of his mouth pulls up as he holds my gaze.
I blink in surprise, breaking my trance, then chirp out a sorry.
In the least elegant way possible, I scramble off of him, flop down in the seat next to his, cross my arms, and stare straight ahead in embarrassment.
In turn, the man shakes his head before grabbing a book from his bag and flipping it open, just as our plane starts to taxi to the runway.
The flight attendants perform their standard safety demo, waving their arms at the emergency exits.
As soon as our wheels come off the ground, I press my face to the little window and gaze out, eyes wide.
The River Thames snakes its way through the beautiful city that’s shrinking away beneath us.
The sun is about to set, so more and more reading lights switch on, creating a fairytale effect.
As the London Eye slowly disappears from view, I catch one last glimpse of Tower Bridge before we rise up above the clouds.
The FASTEN SEAT BELT sign shuts off with a melodious ping.
I unbuckle and hear the man next to me do the same.
Observing him from the corner of my eye, I notice he’s wearing a smooth silver thumb ring.
As he turns a page in his book, I squint in an effort to decipher the words. Is this guy reading Nietzsche?
You know you have a window you can look out of, right? he grumbles without looking up.
Busted. I look ahead again, feeling my cheeks go hot. What’s his problem? I haven’t done anything wrong. All I did was point out that he’d hijacked my seat.
I feel deeply uncomfortable. I can’t stand it when people treat me like this. Making conversation is usually effortless for me; it’s a pretty big part of my job. People never treat me the way this Jack Sparrow upgrade has decided to treat me. And I hate it.
I awkwardly patter my hands on my knees and look around.
From the corner of his eye, Jack Sparrow fires an irritated glare at my neurotic drumming and I can see his jaw tighten.
Quickly, I tuck my hands under my thighs and do everything in my power not to let out an obvious sigh.
I’m relieved to see a flight attendant show up at our row a moment later. His arrival is a welcome distraction.
Can I get you anything to drink? he asks with a practiced smile.
I glance at my neighbour as he flips another page, and roll my eyes. This situation calls for alcohol.
Do you have any red wine? I ask.
The flight attendant gives me a friendly nod, then opens a few cart drawers before handing me a full glass.
And for you, sir? The flight attendant turns his attention to the total grouch sitting next to me.
Any chance you have rum? he asks with a doubtful look.
The flight attendant shakes his head in apology. I’m sorry, sir, we don’t. The closest thing we have would be whisky.
That’s too bad . . . I’ll skip this round, then. Thanks, he replies, before diving back into his book.
I take it all in as I go over any options that won’t have me spending the next eight hours in silence. Maybe I can strike up a conversation or say something casual to break the awkward tension between us.
Arrr, why is the rum always gone, ey mate?
I’m flooded with regret before the words have even left my mouth.
The man looks at me as if I’ve lost my entire mind, and I can hardly blame him. Was that actually the best thing I could come up with? A quote from Pirates of the Caribbean?
Sir! he shouts over his shoulder at the flight attendant. I think I’ll take that whisky after all!
Where is the button that opens the secret hatch under my seat? And, no, I won’t be needing a parachute, thank you very much.
I keep a low profile for the next three hours. Dinner came a while ago—a lasagna that most Italians would find insulting, with a chunk of chewy bread on the side. I’m working my way through my second glass of wine and my neighbour is about halfway through his book. He only ate half of his meal.
I bite my lip. Airplane food is so nasty, am I right?
Second attempt to get a conversation flowing. Why is he being so rude? Isn’t it so much more enjoyable to have someone to talk to on a long flight?
The man looks up and seems unimpressed. When he spots my empty dish, he arches an eyebrow and I jump into defence mode.
Oh—I was hungry.
Obviously, he retorts, before returning to his book.
Pleased to have coaxed a few words out of him, I continue. I had planned to grab a bite to eat at Heathrow, but my flight got delayed on the way in, so I ran out of time.
You don’t say.
Yep. And then I got frisked because I’m from Amsterdam. I give him an incensed look. Can you believe it?
He lifts his head again and gives me a dead stare. Yeah.
They’re sending me to New York for a year, I continue, undeterred.
All because I made one little mistake at work.
It was a total misunderstanding. I didn’t actually want to move.
But it could be a good thing, kind of a fresh start, you know?
A year is a super long time, though, and all my friends and family live in the Netherlands.
They came to the airport to see me off and I was absolutely bawling, I ramble on.
It’s the anxiety. I just can’t process someone being such a jerk to me for no reason at all.
Anyone else would probably accept the fact that this conversation is going nowhere, and that they would never see this arrogant man ever again after this flight, but I just can’t let it slide.
I have a stubborn need for affirmation and acknowledgement.
So I keep talking, as my opponent seems to be getting grumpier by the second.
How about you? I finally ask. What brings you to New York?
Jack Sparrow stares at me, expressionless, as he grabs the headphones from around his neck and puts them on his head.
I blink, and an awful feeling creeps in.
Okay. I give up.