Page 2 of Game Changer

I’ve been talking myself into this for days.

But now…I’m not sure I can do it.

It’s not too late to get off.

I’m halfway out of my seat when I collide with a man coming down the aisle.

He’s huge, towering above me and easily engulfing the space around us with his broad shoulders and wall of a chest. His face is partially hidden by his hoodie while sweatpants cling to his lean hips and strong legs. A logo-print duffel is clutched firmly in his hand.

He glances into the overhead with a brief double-take at my pink luggage before dropping his bag at his feet and yanking off Beats headphones.

"You’re in my seat.”

His voice is more growl than words, and it rubs along my skin like sandpaper.

My fear is crowded out by disbelief at this man’s audacity. “I don’t think so. I’m 1B.”

I checked my boarding pass a zillion times as I navigated the airport.

His eyes narrow. “I’m always 1B.”

“Except today,” I go on helpfully as I drop back into my aisle seat, which grew infinitely more appealing in the seconds since this stranger tried to take it from me.

I shift my knees to the side, the universal symbol for “go on through.”

His stare is intense, and looking for a way out, I reach into the pocket for my boarding pass that’s tucked in a magazine somewhere.

My bracelet slips halfway off, and I push it back on.

He doesn’t move.

Finally, his impatience overwhelms me.

“Fine! If it matters so much to you, take it.” I shift over to the window. Not my fault if I lose my breakfast on him. “We’re waiting for a late arrival…”

I trail off as the flight attendant shuts the doors.

He’s the late arrival.

He shoves his duffel into the overhead compartment and sinks into the seat, tugging his hood back from his head.

My breath catches.

His eyes are the color of chocolate, smoldering with little flecks of gold and fringed with thick lashes. A faded scar slices through one of his eyebrows. Almost-black hair decorates his square jaw, a five o' clock shadow though it’s barely two. His nose has a slight dent, and his lips look as though they’ve been cut from marble.

Good God, he’s beautiful.

Strikingly, imperfectly beautiful.

Picasso said the reason his portraits were skewed, why he painted every eye differently, is because every eyeisdifferent. It’s not an issue of painting; it’s an issue ofseeing.

If uniqueness is beauty, this man is a work of art.

The pilot runs through the takeoff spiel, and the flight attendant demonstrates how to fasten a seatbelt. Her attention is fixed on the guy next to me, as if he’s the one responsible for getting us to our destination in one piece.

“The flight over to Denver will be turbulent,” the pilot says over the speaker.

I take a deep breath as I pull out my phone and switch on the signal.

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