Page 8 of Keep It

The email with my contract comes through the Friday after the call and by Saturday morning, I have my Eurostar ticket in my inbox.

Pulling my suitcase down the aisle of the train, I glance up at the seat numbers overhead. I’ve never sat in Business class before. The aisle is significantly bigger with two seats on one side of the aisle and one on the other. Hopefully, I can sit on my own and not have to worry about awkwardly brushing elbows with a stranger.

My suitcase snags on the corner of a seat and I tug it impatiently. I am already overheating in my coat and I can feel sweat slide down my back.

Finally, I spot C24. Double checking my ticket I realize with a twinge of annoyance that my seat is indeed a two and to make it worse there is already a man sitting next to it. I was hoping for the window at least but if production is paying then I’m not complaining.

The man hasn’t looked up at me yet but I can see the mess of brown curls on his head and the long slender fingers holding his phone.

I place my case in the overhead container and settle in my seat, grabbing my own phone from my pocket. The motion of my arm bending finally causes C25 to look up.

I feel his stare on me, burning the side of my face.

“What are you doing?” the stranger asks. His brown hair falls haphazardly across his forehead as if he has run his hands through it, familiar blue eyes glare at me from beneath–frankly ridiculously–long eyelashes.

Stunned, I glance into the aisle, looking for whoever he must be talking to before turning back to him. “Excuse me?”

“What are you doing?” he repeats, as if the question suddenly makes sense.

“Sitting in my seat.” I try not to phrase it as a question.

He blinks. “Sit somewhere else.”

“What? No. This is the seat on my ticket.”

“Let me see it.”

“See what?”

“Your ticket.” He reaches out a hand, his fingers curling impatiently as if he expects me to hand it over.

“My tick–God, Eurostar are a lot more casual with the uniforms nowadays.”

The daggers C25 shoots me are so icy I could get freezer burn, but I meet him with a glare of my own.

“This isn’t your seat.”

I stamp down on the nervousness that maybe I am in the wrong seat. I remind myself I’ve already read my ticket and to refuse to give this guy an inch by checking again.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

Unbelievable.“If you want to move, be my guest.” I bite out.

His nostrils flare. A shame, for it convolutes his strong Roman nose into a ghastly sneer.

“I was here first.”

“Well, if you’re not going to move and you can’t makeme, you’re just going to have to get over it.” I send him a saccharine smile and turn back to face the front.

1 - 0 C25.

In an attempt to make myself even more at home, I start to shed my layers.

Spring is well under way in England but the weather has never abided by the calendar, and it’s been unseasonably cold. Which is why I am wearing a t-shirt, jumper, coat and a fetching lilac bobble hat. I can see now that it might have been overkill, as the run to the train–and the infuriating fight with Grumpy–has left me slightly overheated.

Praying I don’t smell and can avoid any further vitriol from C25, I aggressively strip layers, leaving them in a pile in my lap.

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