Page 22 of My Totally Unfair Deal

I’ll never admit it, but I’m low-key glad Harrison told me to change into a dress. (It’s a dark gray Hello Kitty one, and he rolled his eyes when he saw it—but it works.)

I’m also pretty sure the flight attendants aren’t supposed to strut up and down the aisle this many times during boarding.

So far—all three of them have walked by at least five times, each flashing their best“accidentally-on-purpose”smile at Harrison.

No wonder he’s so insufferably cocky.

One of them finally places napkins on our trays.

“Hi.” She blushes at Harrison. “Can I interest either of you in a beverage before takeoff?”

“I’ll have a vodka,” I answer. “He’ll probably want your fanciest whiskey.”

“She’ll have a distilled water,” Harrison says without even looking at me. “Keep the whiskey for me, though.”

The attendant walks away, and I glare at him like he just committed a war crime.

“No alcohol until I know your tolerance level,” he says. “Besides, you need to take your first lesson sober.”

“I thought the first lesson was the dress.”

“That towel you’re wearing is not a dress.” He turns toward me fully now, body angled close, voice dipping into something smooth and inescapably seductive.

“Pretend we just met,” he says. “Introduce yourself.”

I blink. “I’m Eliza Hart.”

“No.” He tilts his head. “Again.”

“I’m Eliza Hart... sir?” I offer, dry as hell.

“Cute.” He lets out a low laugh. “But let’s try adding something about yourself.”

“Okay.” I pause. “I’m Eliza Hart, and I run a farm resort with my older brother.”

“Can you say it without sounding like you’re confessing to a felony?”

“Fine.” I try it again, repeating my exact same words. My voice is a lot softer this time, but he shakes his head.

“Say it like this.” His gaze forces me to focus on his voice. “I’m Eliza Hart, and I run The Hart Farms—a luxury resort tucked in the heart of Tennessee. It’s where city stress goes to die.”

His tone drips with confidence, practiced charm, and something I can’t quite put my finger on—something that makes butterflies flutter in my stomach.

“That wording draws people in,” he says. “It makes them want to know more.”

I shift in my seat, and the flight attendant returns to set down our drinks.

A tall, glistening whiskey for him. A sad, room-temperature water for me.

I eye his liquor longingly.

“Once you pull someone in,” he continues, picking up his drink, “you have to make them want to stay.”

He takes a slow sip, watching me over the rim of the glass like he’s enjoying every second of this power play.

“So, here’s your next assignment,” he says. “Come up with at least ten different ways to introduce yourself to me before we land.”

What? My jaw drops. “Ten?”

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