Mid-Thirties, Flirty & Frosted (Mid-Thirties and Flirty Billionaires #3)

Chapter 1

MILE HIGH MISHAPS

HARPER

The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

I have not found my authentic self.

But I have found rock bottom, and apparently it's a middle seat on a flight to Las Vegas that I was supposed to board three hours ago.

My phone buzzes. The group chat—Beaumont Sisters: Vegas Edition.

Margot: Harper, where are you??? We're at the airport bar and Amelia just ordered her third mimosa

Amelia: It's MY bachelorette party weekend—and your new job week! And I have no regrets!

Margot: HARPER. TEXT US BACK.

Margot: She's probably re-organizing her carry-on by size, color, and likelihood of TSA confiscation

I type back.

ME: Slight problem. Missed the flight.

Margot: WHAT

Amelia: nooooo Harper you PROMISED

ME: I know. I'm so sorry. Subway situation involving a naked man and the F train. I'm on the next flight. I'll be there in 5 hours

Margot: OMG what. Did you call the police???

ME: I wasn’t in the mood for reporting unleashed schlong so early in the morning. But I’m currently boarding. Save me a mimosa.

Amelia: Declan just texted asking if you're okay. I told him you're fine but possibly cursed.

Margot: You're lucky we love you

I silence my phone and shove it into my bag, feeling the familiar twist of guilt in my stomach. The guilt is getting a workout today.

Missing the flight wasn't entirely the subway's fault—although the naked man incident did cost me a solid fifteen minutes of subway-car-switching and subsequent therapy.

The real problem started at 7 AM when Mom called, her voice doing that thing where it gets high and tight, trying to sound cheerful while delivering bad news.

I push that to the back of my mind, refocusing on the current bad news in my life—which is that I'm squished into seat 32B—middle seat, naturally—wedged between a man who's manspreading like he paid for two seats and a woman who's currently demolishing a family-size bag of Cheetos.

This is not how I wanted to start my baby sister's bachelorette weekend—being the Maid of Honor who can't even show up on time.

Good job, Harper.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've reached our cruising altitude," the pilot announces. "Feel free to move about the cabin."

Thank God.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Margot: Amelia is a swallow or two from being completely wasted. Other than that, this weekend is going to be AMAZING. Get here safe. And stop fretting—I can feel you fretting from here.

I smile, nearly typing back:

“Not fretting. Definitely not thinking about the news Mom shared or that, after the world’s longest job search, I can finally begin my new position in just days.

Or the fact that, not counting my now ex-husband Thomas, I haven't had a real relationship in twelve years.

Or that I'm thirty-seven and still don't know what I'm doing with my life. Totally fine. See you soon.”

I delete it and try again.

ME: I’m good. Love you both. Tell Amelia I'm bringing the champagne.

My phone dies before I can hit send. Groaning, I shove it in my jeans pocket, becoming acutely aware that the coffee I chugged at JFK—the largest size available, consumed in eight frantic minutes while sprinting to my gate—is really starting to make itself known.

I really, really need to pee.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and attempt to stand.

Except…Manspreader has fallen asleep with his leg angled directly into my exit path.

I try to angle around him, executing what can only be described as an awkward limbo move, when Cheeto Lady suddenly sneezes, and a cloud of orange dust explodes into my face.

"Bless you," I manage, blinking through Cheeto debris.

"Sorry!" she says, immediately cramming another handful into her mouth.

I finally escape into the aisle and make my way toward the back of the plane, where a line of what feels like seventy people are queued for the single working bathroom.

At the front of the line stands a family of four. A family who has apparently decided that bathroom time is a group activity.

"Mommy, I don't have to go anymore!" a small voice announces from inside.

"Well, you're going to try," the mother responds firmly.

I shift my weight from foot to foot. The coffee is not playing games.

"Excuse me," I say to the father, who's blocking the aisle while scrolling on his phone. "How long do you think—"

"Kids," he says, not looking up. "You know how it is."

I do not know how it is. Because in the five years that I actually was married, kids weren’t even a discussion—and it’s a good thing they weren’t.

But what I do have is a bladder that's about to stage a mutiny and zero patience for whatever parenting philosophy involves occupying an airplane bathroom for—I check my watch—nine minutes and counting.

Five more minutes pass.

Seven.

The "I need to pee" sensation has graduated from "uncomfortable" to "this is a legitimate medical emergency."

Behind me, an elderly man clears his throat. "I've been waiting for twenty minutes," he says quietly.

Twenty minutes. This family has been in there for TWENTY MINUTES.

I glance toward the front of the plane.

First class. Where there's definitely another bathroom.

Available. Empty. Probably gold-plated with complimentary hand lotion and a bidet.

But then the family bathroom door opens, and instead of the child emerging, it's the mother, who announces cheerfully, "Okay, Daddy's turn!"

Daddy's turn.

That's it. I'm going rogue.

"Sorry," I mutter to the elderly man behind me. "Bathroom emergency. I'll be quick."

I speed-walk toward the curtain separating economy from first class. The flight attendant is at the front, helping someone with their bag. The first-class bathroom door is right there. Twenty feet away.

Freedom.

I slip past the curtain, and I realize I’m going to make it.

I'm going to—

"Ma'am?"

I freeze mid-stride, one hand already reaching for the first-class bathroom door handle.

So close. I turn around slowly.

The flight attendant—a woman with severely pulled-back hair and a smile that could cut glass—is staring at me like I just tried to steal the plane.

"Are you seated in first class?" she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.

"No, but the bathroom back there has a family doing some kind of multi-generational rotation situation, and I really—"

"I'm afraid this bathroom is reserved for first-class passengers."

"It's just that I really have to—"

"Company policy." Her smile doesn't waver. "Please return to your seat."

I consider my options and choose defeat, because I'm Harper Beaumont, and if my recent divorce has taught me anything, it’s that I’m a people-pleaser who apologizes too much.

I turn around and start back toward economy—when suddenly the plane hits turbulence.

Not gentle turbulence. Not "please return to your seats" turbulence.

Full-on "Oh God, we're all going to die" turbulence.

The plane lurches violently to the left. I stumble, arms flailing—

And crash directly into someone.

Someone who is very much not expecting a five-foot-five woman to use him as a human airbag.

"What the—"

I look up…and realize that the person I've just crashed into—the person I'm currently pressed against as the plane shakes—is possibly the most beautiful man I've ever seen in real life.

Tall. Over six feet, easily, with dark hair, perfectly styled in that "I woke up like this but actually spent twenty minutes on it" way.

And slate-gray eyes currently staring down at me with an expression that says, "Who are you and why are you violating my personal space?"

He's wearing a suit. On a flight to Vegas.

Nobody wears a suit to Vegas unless they're going to a business conference or they're in the mafia.

"I'm so sorry," I start—

The plane lurches again.

I stumble forward. My hand shoots out to catch myself and lands directly on his chest.

His very firm chest.

"Mon Dieu," I breathe.

"Are you quite finished?" he asks.

His voice is deep. Clipped. And vaguely familiar.

Have I heard this voice before?

"I was just—" I gesture toward the bathroom, my hand still on his chest because the plane is still rocking and I have zero interest in face-planting into his lap. "Bathroom emergency. The family of four has been in there for like half an hour, and I really—"

"The economy bathroom," he says slowly, enunciating each word like I'm a particularly dim five-year-old, "is that way."

The plane steadies, and I step back, peeling myself off him.

"Right. Yes. I'm aware. It's just that there was a situation—a family situation—and the flight attendant said I couldn't use the first-class bathroom, which honestly seems like a weird capitalist power play during a legitimate medical emergency, but—"

I'm babbling.

Stop babbling, Harper.

"—anyway, sorry for the whole..." I motion to the space between us. "Crashing into you thing. And the chest-touching thing. That was unintentional."

His expression doesn't change. If anything, his jaw tightens slightly.

"Perhaps next time," he says, his tone so cold I'm surprised frost doesn't form on the overhead bins, "you could try staying in your assigned section of the aircraft."

Oh.

Oh, he's one of those.

The kind of person who thinks first-class passengers are a different species. The kind who probably complains when economy passengers walk through his section to board. The kind who—

"Perhaps next time," I hear myself say, because apparently my mouth has decided today is the day we burn every bridge, "you could try being less of a—"

The plane lurches again.

Violently.

I stumble forward, hands windmilling.

Behind me, I hear a crash. A yelp. The unmistakable sound of the beverage cart losing a fight with physics.

I turn just in time to see it: a full cup of tomato juice—thick, red, inevitably staining tomato juice—launching through the air like a heat-seeking missile.

It does a somersault through the cabin in slow motion.

I lunge forward, arms outstretched, channeling every volleyball game I played in high school—

And instead of catching it, I bat it.

Like a volleyball.

Directly. Into. His. Chest.

The cup explodes on impact. Tomato juice erupts across the man’s pristine white shirt in a spectacular crimson burst that splashes up onto his jaw—a perfect slash of red against sharp cheekbones.

It drips down onto his expensive suit pants, soaking into the fabric. And—oh God—some of it hits his perfectly styled hair, leaving a streak of red.

He looks like he's been shot in an Italian restaurant.

"Oh my God," I whisper.

For a moment, nobody moves. The cabin has gone eerily quiet except for the hum of the engines and someone's stifled laughter from row 3.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I whisper. “I tried to catch it, and instead I... batted it. Like a goalkeeper.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just stares at his chest, then at me.

“I have Wet Ones,” I blurt, digging through my tote. “And Tide To-Go. Possibly expired. Wait—baby wipes! I swear by these. Club soda? No, water. I have water. That’s something.”

He exhales—hardly a sigh—when the flight attendant materializes.

“Is there a problem here?” Her gaze zeroes in on me. “Ma’am, I’m really going to have to see your ticket.”

“I—uh—don’t—”

“She’s with me,” Tomato Man interrupts, stepping forward. “I have her ticket.”

The flight attendant blinks. “Of course, Mr.—yes. Of course.” She pivots and vanishes without further question.

Silence settles in the aisle, as he wipes some of the sauce from his cheek, and I gape up at him, stunned.

“I can’t—You didn’t—“ I bluster. “I just mean…Thanks for the save. I swear I didn’t plan any of this. I’ve never even flown first class—unless you count that tiny commuter plane once where every seat was fancy by default—”

“Sit down,” he says, already moving toward his seat. “I always book two. In case I don’t want company.”

My brain snags on the “in case I don’t want company” part.

But then he adds, “Apparently, fate has other plans.”

He’s not smiling, but there’s a flicker of something dry and sharp in his tone. Like he’s not totally mad about it.

I follow him down the aisle, trying not to stare. Because some part of my brain—the one that organizes chaos into cookable form—is already processing him like a recipe:

Recipe: Sexy Grump on the Plane

· 1 ruined shirt

· Over six feet of sarcasm

· 2 airplane seats, no strings attached

· A heaping of weirdly hot and grumpy charm

· Inexplicable attraction, to taste

“Are you sure?” I ask, pausing beside the empty seat.

His eyes skim over me: the tote bag, the damp baby wipe in my hand, the residual panic probably still clinging to my face.

“You’ve already tackled me and destroyed my shirt,” he says, deadpan. “Might as well finish the flight together.”

I slide into the seat.

I don’t know what caused the sudden shift in Mr. Icy’s demeanor. And frankly I don’t care.

Because as I sink into the plush seat beside him, my shoulders drop for the first time in days. It’s the first time in six months I’ve felt something other than bone-tired.

And that?

That feels worth the risk.