Page 4 of Tilly in Technicolor
I breathlessly thank her, chest still heaving from my run, as I scramble through the door and onto the jet bridge.
When I step onto the plane, a beautiful flight attendant with dark red lipstick and a glorious British accent greets me. I can’t help feeling a swell of excitement at knowing my destination will have me surrounded by pretty voices.
I make my way toward the back, jamming my suitcase into the overhead bin with my last reserves of strength after running a marathon through the airport. I collapse down into the window seat of row twenty-seven.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down my buzzing system.
Then I grin.
This is it. The moment of all moments. The one that will change my life forever.
I press my forehead against the window, heart thumping in excitement. I can’t wait to take off. I can’t wait to leave the ground and my old life and my problems behind. I can’t wait to—
“You’re in my seat.”
My excited loop-de-loop thoughts are cut off by a crisp, British voice. I whip my head to the aisle and find myself eye level with a long pair of legs in tailored black pants.
I frown, instinctually not trusting anyone who wears non-elastic pants on a plane. Monsters, every single one of them. But, as my eyes trail up an equally tailored black button-down to a face so gorgeous I think I might die, I decide this lovelystranger is an exception. Someone this pretty must be an angel.
If angels wore all black and had sharp noses and chiseled jaws that could cut glass and stern, disapproving frowns. Fallen angel, then.
“What?” I manage to choke out, eyes wandering round and around his handsome face. I’ll be honest, my silly heart and head have always conjured up heated tension with literally anyone remotely close to my age in an airport, but this boy… well, cute doesn’t even cut it.
Hot Guy—wait, would it be HotGuy? Or would the British call him Hot… Chap? Bloke? Lad? I’m trying to be more cultured, after all.
HotLadhas dark auburn hair falling in waves across his forehead. His light brown eyes, the color of honey, are framed by a sweep of dark lashes. His long fingers tap against his leg in a steady beat as he stares in the vicinity of my left shoulder.
“My seat,” he repeats. “You’re in it.”
“Oh.” I chew on my bottom lip, hoping to look charming and endearing. I would have sworn I had a window seat. And by sworn, I mean I didn’t check but assumed because what’s the point of flying if you can’t look out at the clouds and completely lose yourself in daydreams?
“Would you be interested in switching?” I ask. “I’m really into window seats.”
Hot Lad’s eyes flick to mine for a split second, then land back on my shoulder. “No.” Pause. “Thank you.”
I blink at him, mouth falling open. Well… that’s the end ofthat,I guess. Cool. Cool coolcool.Gorgeous moody boy in all black does not play when it comes to seating assignments and is really not fun about it at all and is actually killing my total freaking travel vibe and now I have to sit next to him for ten hours. Love it.
I scramble up from the seat and scooch to the one next to it, dragging my backpack up from the floor and snagging it on every corner humanly possible in the awkward process. I try to squeeze myself against my aisle seat to give Hot Lad room, but he waits, fingers still tapping.
After what feels like an eternity of awkward standing, we both make a little hand wave for the other to move through, me toward his seat, him ushering me into the aisle. I think we’re both caught off guard by the gestures, because we then make jerky movements toward and away from each other like pecking chickens.
His eyes go wide like he’s being confronted by a feral cat, and I scowl, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I charge forward into the aisle to give him more room, but, at the same moment, Hot Lad takes a definitive step into the row of seats.
And my forehead smacks against his ridiculously chiseled jaw.
“Agghrrrhhjh,” he groans, head jerking back.
My knees give out and I slump into the aisle seat, head cradled in my hands.
Cut glass? That jaw could bust open my damn skull holy crap that hurt so bad.
It feels like the plane has gone silent, everything frozen as I hold my throbbing head and Hot Lad towers over me with what I can only imagine is a look of unmitigated horror.
He finally squeezes past me, folding his long limbs into the window seat and putting his black backpack on the ground at his feet. He turns slightly away from me, both of us still mildly panting from the chaos.
“That really hurt,” Hot Lad says at last, frowning as he looks out the window, rubbing his chin.
I stare at him in gaping disbelief. He says it like it’s my fault.
