So, it’s absolutely not fine.

I woke up at the crack of dawn to find out my 6 AM flight to LA was delayed and then canceled, which Customer Service only decided to inform me of once I had arrived at the airport. Shooting begins on the 15th, but I was hoping to arrive around three days prior to the fact to acclimatize to the city and the locations. Plus, I need to be on time for the Contestant’s Dinner—the night all the contestants meet for the first time in a super elitist restaurant to get to know each other— or assess the competition. 

This sudden change to my flight leaves me running around the airport like a headless chicken, trying not to scream as I attempt to explain to Customer Service that I need a new ticket ASAP. The guy at Customer Service could not give less than one shit, but when he looks up from his laptop and sees my welled-up eyes, he finally tells me that he’ll see what he can do.

The next flight to LA is three hours after my initial one and with a totally different airline, but I take it. I can’t exactly afford to be picky. With my brand new boarding pass, I march off to my terminal and have a nap. 

But wouldn’t you know it? This flight is actually early by about an hour, so I sleep through the announcements when my zone is called. Luckily, loud conversations of other flyers pull me out of my sleep, and I jog up to the line half-asleep, waiting for about ten years until I can finally board the plane. 

Since I missed my zone being called, I have to brush past a whole bunch of other passengers and find that the one other person in my row is already seated. And not only is he already seated, he’s seated at what’s technically my seat. 

We’re in row 12. I’m 12A, which happens to be the window seat, and he has to be 30B, which is meant to be the seat next to the row. He, of course, decided to steal the window seat instead, even though it’s very clearly marked 12A.

I’m not bitter about it, of course. 

So, in my most non-bitter tone, I tell the guy who colonized my seat that “I think 12A is my seat.”

The guy’s got a head of chestnut-colored locks, earth eyes and a ridiculous cupid’s bow with full lips. I mean, most people I know have cupid’s bows. But his cupid’s bow is pronounced, like it was drawn on a piece of rough paper. His skin’s bronzed by sun and genetics and his dark eyebrows are raised all the way high when he hears my absolutely non-passive aggressive request. 

He purses those lips and then says, “I actually don't think so.”

The placating calm in his voice almost sets me off, but I decide that after this horrific morning, the last thing I need to do is lose my mind.

So, I echo his tone the best I can. “Well, I can show you my boarding pass, if you’d like.”

He nods. In fact, he nearly shrugs. I hand it to him, and his eyes peruse the paper before he hums and returns it to me. 

“That’s actually funny,” he says. Frankly, I don’t find anything about this funny, but I wait for him to continue. “Because,” he plows on, handing me his own boarding pass, “Mine says 12A too.”

And he’s not lying. Sure enough, right next to the flight number and his name is SEAT 12A in bold black ink.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask, and he takes his boarding pass back.

“I don’t think it’s that serious,” the guy lets out a breath. “Just a dumb mistake on the airline’s part.” 

Which, okay, it isn’t that serious. Not in principle, at least. But given that my initial flight was canceled, I almost missed my second, and I’ve been running around the airport like I’ve lost my goddamn mind — all in the span of this morning — mistakes like this are more irritating than they are amusing. 

“Hey,” he says, and my eyes flick to him. “If you want the seat…”

I’m not about to become one of Those Passengers, so I shake my head no and settle in the aisle. And that’s certainly stupid, because I would prefer that seat, but on a technicality, it’s also his, so I don’t actually have any authority to kick him off, and I’d look like a douchebag if I did. 

So, I settle down on 12B, pushing my head against the back of the seat.

The guy tilts his head back too. He seems about my age. He’s got a little stubble on his jaw, like he’s freshly-shaven, and his shoulders are wide. He looks over at me. “You look like you want to throw me off this damn plane.”

Despite myself, I snort. “I don’t think your biceps would fit through those tiny windows, even if I wanted to toss you out.”

He grabs his shoulders subconsciously, his henley shirt doing nothing to hide said biceps. “I can’t tell if I’m being hit on or if that was meant to be derogatory.

Him and I both. 

“It’s about logistics,” I say. “So, neither.”

Hopefully, he takes the hint and stops talking. He does neither of those things, and a minute later, the guy actually says, “I think you’d fit. Through the window, I mean.” My eyes fly open as he mimes throwing a thin object out of the window, which feels vaguely threatening.

“Excuse me?” 

“It’s about logistics,” he pokes a tongue in his cheek. I raise my eyebrows once in some sort of response before tilting my head into the back of my seat.

When the plane starts, I close my eyes and wait for liftoff. The last time I was on a plane was for that damn Miami trip five years ago. And then, I had Reese there to talk me through liftoff and grab my hand during turbulence. I have a feeling this stranger has no plans to do either of those things, so the best I can do for myself is shut my eyes and ignore the growing discomfort in my stomach once the plane rises. 

As soon as we’re in the air and the seatbelt sign is off, my eyes fly open.

The stranger’s eyes are on me, head cocked to the side. “You’re scared of flying?” He looks like he’s about to laugh, so I don’t dignify him with a response. “Why didn’t you ask me to hold your hand or something?” He’s got the charm that some men have mastered with ease, the type of charm that gets the listener all caught up in their spell until it finally registers that they’re clowning you.

On a good day, I have little desire to speak to anyone before ten in the morning. Talk less of a day like this where Murphy’s Law was proved exactly right, repeatedly. Quite honestly, the last thing I need is to be clowned by some douchebag I met five minutes ago. 

“What do you want from me?” I ask. “You literally already have the seat I wanted.”

His hands fly upward. “I offered.”

He’s right, and I imagine that my silence is proof enough. I turn over in my seat, so I’m looking outside of the window rather than at him, and to his credit, he stops talking long enough for me to catch up on sleep. 

I wake up to turbulence and the smell of food. I straighten up in my seat to see a butter chicken dish sat on my tray table. Rubbing at my eyes, I register the stranger next to me, who is eating his own dish with a fork and knife. 

“I ordered for you,” he says at my blank gaze. He turns toward me, scratching at the hair on the nape of his neck and raises both eyebrows in some sort of white flag gesture in the wake of our seating issues and his teasing. “You were knocked out cold.”

And I know damn well that the way I had fallen asleep was not flattering at all. Knowing me, I probably had my mouth all open and my neck at an odd angle. Not to mention, there are these sound effects I make when I sleep that have been confirmed by both That Guy and Reese on more than one occasion. 

“Thank you,” I take the white flag.

“Griffin.” He looks like a Griffin— all dark hair, and ink eyelashes and jaw, like something out of mythos. When I focus on him now, he couldn’t be anything else. And now that my foggy sleep brain has cleared, I register that he’s got a faint dimple that appears on his right cheek when he actually smiles, rather than when he’s sporting that fox-like grin that’s drenched in all sorts of mischief and arrogance.  

“You?”

“Vivianna,” I reply, because I suppose we’re making friendly small talk now.

We sit in silence for the next few minutes. I dig into my food, spare glances at Griffin. He’s got the tattoo of a rose on the back of his neck. I only notice when he bends it down to eat. Griffin seems to be the type of guy to have multiple tattoos for the hell of it, but his henley and slacks don’t allow for any more of them to be visible. 

My eyes dart right back to my food the second he looks up. He doesn’t seem to mind my deliberate effort to scan for tattoos. He rolls up one of his sleeves, exposing the rest of a sleeve tattoo. “I have one more here.” He then vaguely gestures toward his chest area. “That’s the only other one I have.” 

“Didn’t know I was that overt.”

“I mean, I think you’re pretty expressive,” he says. I can tell he’s biting his tongue, and something devious flashes across his eyes.

“What?” I ask, suddenly urgent. “What makes you think that?” 

He pauses the movie I hadn’t even realized he was watching, and turns to me. “You know that you smack your lips when you sleep?” He does a little demonstration too, as though I’m not already tempted enough to throw myself off a moving train.

I cover my face with both hands, as I burn an absurd amount. I’m more than extremely fortunate for my deep brown skin. Reese says that embarrassment is a choice, but I’m certain that decision has been premade for me. 

And Griffin, well, Griffin is laughing his ass off. After a beat, he pries my fingers off my face, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Just so you know, the white flag is gone. Incinerated. Done for.” His fingers leave mine as a snort leaves his nose. 

He raises his eyebrows once. “I’ll extend a palm branch next time, Vivi.” 

Now that he’s learned my name, he’s having too much fun with it. And no one calls me Vivi— it’s always been Viv or Vivianna. Griffin, however, is certainly one of those guys who constantly consider themselves the exception. He badly needs to be humbled. 

“I don’t want any of your peace offerings anymore, Griffin.”

“Gotcha, Vivi.”