Page 2 of Shattered Veil

I blink, ready to call him a jerk out loud when I realize he’s mistaken my navy wrap dress for a flight attendant uniform. A dress and high heels aren’t the most comfortable thing to wear for a twenty-hour flight, but I didn’t have time to change.

“I don’t work here. That’s my seat.” I point.

“Your seat?” The hot jerk’s gaze cuts across my body in a stare I feel.

Panic swells in my chest that he’s some hotshot who can pull rank and toss my ass in coach.

“Yes, mine.” I jam my thumb behind me. “They moved me next to you to bump some newlyweds into first class.”

Jerk makes a gagging noise.

“Is that reaction for sitting next to me, or the newlyweds?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “The newlyweds, and marriage in general.”

A rich, handsome man who doesn’t want to get married. How original.

The real airline attendant appears. “You need to take your seat, Miss.”

“I’m trying.”This jackass won’t let me.

These insults are going audible next.

The jerk removes his glasses, and now, I’m staring at the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

Figures. Most insanely good-looking men are jerks.

“This seat was supposed to be empty,” he says, low and gravelly while yanking the bag away.

“I’ll store that for you, sir,” the attendant offers in apurring kitten voice.

Clearly, she’s noticed how stunning the man is, too. I bet that Irish accent opens a lot of legs.

Jerk scoffs a laugh. “I don’t let women carry my luggage.”

Smoothly, he rises from the oversized airline seat like a phoenix rising from the flames. Daunting. Impressive. Majestic.

My eyes follow him until he reaches his full height of what’s got to be over six feet tall. The extended headroom on this ultra-jumbo jet designed for cross-global flights doesn’t block his head.

The attendant leaves to assist another passenger, and I stare at the jerk lifting his bag. His red button-down shirt with an asymmetrical gray collar and matching turned-up sleeves hugs his torso and thick biceps.

“Excuse me,” he says, trying to get into the aisle to put his bag in the adjacent closet situated between each set of rows.

I step back, agog as that deep voice seeps into my bones.

He gives me a once-over again, this time in a way that suggests he realizes my dress isn’t a uniform.

His eyes flare and his jaw muscle jumps. “Can I put your bag away?”

I fist the handle of my ordinary carry-on, a Coach tote holding my laptop. “No, thank you. I have work to do.” My palms sweat more with every flicker of those green eyes.

The attendant returns. “I need you to take your seat, Miss, or—”

“Relax,”the jerk snaps at her.

I should probably stop referring to him as that.

“And I want my McCallan.Now.”

---