The guy across the aisle from me was giving me the eye. You know, the eye. It was neither subtle nor appealing. All that was missing was him doing that gross gesture of wiggling his tongue between two of his fingers which no girl in their right mind considers to be a sexy, or effective, come-on. And this rando had been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, his gaze darting between me and the bathroom, as if he thought he could convince me to join the mile-high club with him.

Ugh. No thanks.

“Hey.” His sleazy, faux whisper was just as unappealing as his leering gaze. I tried to ignore him, but he didn’t give up. “Hey, hey, hey. You with the red hair.”

I sighed. Most of the time I loved my red hair. I didn’t love it when it became some sort of beacon for dudes who thought it meant that I was fiery or slutty like Lindsay Lohan. I looked over at him, hoping the only redhead I was reminding him of was Melisandre from Game of Thrones. When she was burning men at the stake.

“Yes?” I kept my tone light and disinterested.

“I gotta ask.” He gave me a once-over. “Do the curtains match the drapes?”

“Wow,” I said dryly. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

He grinned as if I had paid him a compliment. Great, he was gross and dumb.

“You know,” he kept going. “I think the bathroom is empty if you want to, you know.” He made an obscene gesture.

I held up my hand, wishing I could just make it stop. Make it all stop.

“No thanks,” I said firmly.

His goofy expression quickly morphed into a combination of disappointment and anger.

“Whatever, bitch,” he sneered. “Didn’t want to deal with your fire-crotch, anyways.”

“My fire-crotch thanks you,” I told him, and turned away.

Whoever first thought of using an airplane bathroom for sex had clearly been insane. The last place I wanted to bare my special bits to a dude was in a restroom fifty thousand feet in the air. Especially in a restroom as small and cramped as airplane bathrooms were. How did people even have sex in that tiny space? Were they just doing it against the door? That seemed like a recipe for disaster, as I imagined getting down and dirty with someone and the door swinging open in the middle of it, exposing both parties’ special bits to everyone on the airplane.

And even if you managed to do the deed without falling into the aisle, you still had to contend with all the passengers who would be waiting in line for you to, um, finish. There was no getting out of that situation without everyone knowing exactly what you had been doing in there. Because who the hell went into an airplane bathroom with another person?

The whole thing seemed like the worst possible sexual encounter, but apparently this flight was full of guys who thought it was the best idea ever. After getting rid of Fire-Crotch Dude, I was getting the eye from another guy a few aisles ahead. He winked at me, and this time I gave him the patented Paige Pollack brush off—the finger and a sneer. It was a carefully cultivated look that tended to keep strangers out of my way.

Resting bitch face has nothing on my “talk to me and die” face.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, trying to fight the nausea that was rising in my throat. It wasn’t just from those creeps, but their gross leering combined with the turbulence we had been fighting ever since we left London made me sick to my stomach.

Not exactly the triumphant return to America I was hoping for. I’d spent the summer after graduating college with an epic trip to London, working and hanging out with my BFF, Emmy. It was a blast, but I knew I’d have to return to reality eventually—I just didn’t figure on it being reality TV. But two days ago, I got a call from my college friend turned makeup artist, Lorna, offering me a gig working as a production assistant on the reality TV show Ever After.

AKA the biggest hit show in America.

AAKA my guilty pleasure obsession.

AAAKA my chance to launch a glittering career in the world of entertainment.

The only catch? I had to make it to the Hamptons before the cameras started rolling this weekend. Which gave me just enough time to throw my stuff back in a suitcase, camp out at the airport for a last-minute standby ticket, and squeeze myself into the modern torture contraption known as a coach seat on a red-eye transatlantic flight. Still, all the stale peanuts and numb butts in the world couldn’t dampen my excitement thinking about my new job.

The dating reality show was one of my guilty pleasures. I knew that it wasn’t real, that the drama and the romance on screen were manufactured, but I still couldn’t stop watching. And wishing secretly that it was real. I tended to hide my romantic side from most people—covering it up with snark and attitude—but I still got little heart flutters every time I watched the glass slipper ceremony, and the look in the suitor’s eyes when he picked his princess.

What can I say? I’ve always been a sucker for a fairy-tale ending.

I was excited about seeing what happened behind the scenes. The pay wasn’t great, but it promised tons of overtime, and my lodging and food would be covered for the next three weeks, which meant I could basically pocket every paycheck. And Lorna promised it could be a great stepping stone to a career in TV. She had been working on Ever After for the past two years as an assistant in the makeup and hair department. She seemed to like it, and told me that there was lots of room for advancement. Exactly what I needed. I just had to—

Eugh.

The plane lurched, and my stomach did a flip that spelled trouble. I got up and looked for the bathrooms, but they were all occupied—with a long line outside. Shit. My stomach did that lurching thing again, so I bolted in the other direction, towards the first class cabin.

I peeked through the curtain, expecting someone to be waiting on guard to toss us proles back where we belonged. Luckily, the first-class stewardess was distracted. She was leaning down, smiling at one of the passengers, her beautiful blonde hair draped over her shoulder as she flirted with the hot guy in 4C.

“So what is it?” he was asking, his voice low and, annoyingly, sexy. “Do you think you give out more peanuts than pretzels on these flights?”

The stewardess giggled.

“I’d bet it’s nuts,” 4C said, and she giggled again.

Men. They loved any excuse to talk about nuts—theirs or someone else’s.

“You’d be surprised.” The stewardess leaned even closer to him. “Most people ask for pretzels.” Somehow, she managed to make pretzels sound seductive.

“Honey,” 4C told her. “I’d take whatever you were offering.”

I rolled my eyes. All I could really see was a head of very thick, very touchable brown hair. It had that sexy, tousled look that gave the impression of being natural, but probably was the result of hours of styling and product. As long as Mr. Shampoo kept the stewardess occupied, he could flirt as much as he liked.

I ducked into the bathroom before the stewardess looked up, slamming the door shut behind me.

Ah, that was the ticket. It wasn’t much bigger than the economy bathroom, but it was a lot cleaner and smelled a hell of a lot better. Plus there were all these nice extras, like face wash and real towels and really fancy hand lotion. Instead of feeling depressed that we didn’t have the same goodies in coach, I availed myself to all the small luxuries. I immediately felt refreshed, a sensation that vanished when I looked in the mirror.

I looked exhausted. With dark circles under my eyes, I wasn’t exactly the picture of health. My already pale skin was paler than usual—thank you, gloomy London weather—making my freckles stand out and my red hair look brighter than ever. Damn you, unflattering bathroom lighting.

My stomach seemed to have settled, so I dabbed some cold water on my face, smeared on some more of that expensive lotion, and crept out. When I left the bathroom, 4C was empty, and the stewardess was nowhere to be seen. I glanced around and saw that the other bathroom was occupied. I still didn’t understand the appeal of sexing it up in the sky, but if you were going to do it with someone, it might as well be with someone as hot as 4C. I was just about to head back to the land of mere mortals, when I glanced over at his seat and saw that there was one of those fancy, free-to-first-class toiletry cases. Unopened. Untouched.

Before I could stop myself, I snagged it.

Settling back down in my cramped economy seat, I rationalized that 4C clearly didn’t have any use for the toiletry kit, and even if he did, I was certain that his sexy blonde in-air hookup would be able to find him a replacement. Besides, he didn’t have to spend eight hours with his knees practically up against his chin.

Opening up the toiletry kit, I found some little bottles of the same lotion that I’d slathered on in the bathroom. It smelled so good. There were also a bunch of other useful things, like a toothbrush and tiny toothpaste, an extra pair of socks and a sleep mask, and some Advil and breath mints. I popped both of those, hoping it would help me feel better, but after another hour of turbulence, I still felt nauseous.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, though I kept getting interrupted by the constant jolts and dips of the plane. After a while, I gave up. The turbulence, on the other hand, did not. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. Looking out the window, I saw that it appeared as if we were flying through a storm.

Great.

The last thing I wanted was to combine my nausea with a fear of plummeting to the earth in a metal tube. I clutched my armrest and practiced some of the deep breathing techniques my sister, Penny, had tried to teach me. But my older sister was much better at the whole “being mindful” thing than I was. Penny had an inner calm that I lacked. Also, a real job, an apartment, and a plan for the whole “adult life” thing. When she got nervous, she got this whole quiet, serene look that kind of weirded me out. Mainly because when I got nervous, I panicked.

And my bladder panicked, too.

I unsnapped my belt.

“Again?” my seatmate sighed, moving their legs aside to let me through. I quickly walked down the aisle and snuck through the first-class curtain again. The hostess was up at the front, deep in conversation with another pretty stewardess. Geez, did this airline only hire models to work for them? If I didn’t feel so crappy already, I might have felt inadequate, but I was too tired and too nauseous to find the energy to be self-conscious.

I reached for the bathroom door just as it was pulled open. My hand went forward anyways, right into the rock-hard abs of . . . 4C.

At least, that’s who I assumed it was. The guy in front of me had the same thick, tousled brown hair, and definitely looked like the kind of guy an airplane stewardess would want to bang in the bathroom.

Because he was hot. Hot with a capital HOT. His dark-brown hair was just the icing on his cake of hotness. He was tall—really tall—and his broad shoulders seemed to fill the narrow doorway of the bathroom. His eyes were also dark brown, and he had a small dimple in his chin, and a wicked smile on his face.

“Hello,” he said, and I realized that my hand was still on his stomach.

And that I had been tracing the six pack I could feel underneath his tight T-shirt. Immediately, I yanked my hand back.

“Excuse me,” I somehow managed, hoping that he would step aside and let me die from embarrassment in the privacy of the first-class bathroom.

Instead, he gave me another sexy smile. Except, it wasn’t really for me. He was looking past me. I turned around, and saw the other stewardess standing across the aisle. She looked as if she was waiting for something. Or someone.

I practically rolled my eyes. It wasn’t enough for this guy to join the mile-high club once, he had to do it a second time? With a different stewardess?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Excuse me?” 4C asked, and I realized that I had spoken out loud.

“Nothing.” I tried to step around him, but he just shifted to the left, effectively blocking my entrance to the bathroom. “Oh, come on!” I looked up at him, hoping that I would intimate him with my Paige Pollack stare-down.

It didn’t work. Mainly because he was too tall for me to be effectively menacing. Most people were shorter than I was, so looking down at them usually worked. This time, I had to tilt my head upwards, and that completely ruined the effect.

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“The faster you get out of my way, the faster you can get back to your . . .” I gestured in the direction of the stewardess, who was doing her best to look like she was doing something else besides waiting. “To your whatever.”

4C crossed his arms over his broad chest. It was a very, very nice chest, but I did my best not to notice.

“My whatever,” he repeated once, before understanding dawned in his eyes. “Do I detect some judgment in your tone?”

“Not at all,” I told him cheerfully. “I couldn’t care less about what—or who—you do in the cramped space of a public bathroom.”

He let out a laugh. “Oh no?”

“Nope.” I put a hand on that very nice chest, hoping that I could push him out of my way. He didn’t budge. “I’ll only be a minute,” I told him. “Then the two of you can have your in-flight rendezvous.”

4C put his hand over mine. I could feel callouses on his palm, which surprised me. Did first-class passengers have callouses? I thought that was just for us poor folk. Surely he had someone massaging his hands every night and every morning, covering them with the expensive hand lotion just beyond my reach behind him.

“I think you have the wrong idea about what’s going on here,” he told me, his voice low and sexy.

I tried to ignore that too.

“I think I really don’t care,” I shot back.

“I think the lady doth protest too much,” he countered.

“The lady is wondering why you won’t get the hell out of her way,” I told him, getting annoyed. Just because he was hot and rich, I wasn’t going to let him best me.

Then the plane lurched unexpectedly, and I flew forward. Right into 4C’s chest. Immediately his arms went up around me, steadying me.

Dammit. Now I was really annoyed because I was going to have to thank him for catching me.

I pulled back from him to find he had an amused and expectant look on his face.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“You’re welcome,” he said with a smug smile. “Would have hated to see you fall on your ass.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I said before I could stop myself.

He laughed again, and then peered around me. “It is a rather nice ass,” he commented.

“It’s not interested,” I told him.

He only smiled—the smile of a guy who knew that he was damn sexy and could easily find someone who would find this kind of banter charming. It annoyed me because I knew that if he really turned on the charm, I would probably be as giggly as Stewardesses 1 and 2. But I glared at him instead, and finally he stepped aside.

I moved past him, my chest brushing against his as I navigated the cramped space, and his hand came up to my hip, holding me in place for a moment.

“You might say you have no idea who—or what—I can do in that cramped space, but given the chance I’m sure I could give you plenty of ideas.”

The last word was practically a growl, and the sound vibrated through me, my body heating from the inside. I looked up at him, and his dark eyes swept over my figure as if he was undressing me. I shivered, and he smiled.

And walked away.

Annoyed and turned on, I quickly ducked into the bathroom and shut the door. Splashing cold water on my face did little to cool me off, as I alternated between wanting to smack 4C in the face and kiss the hell out of him.

The plane gave another sickening jolt and I gripped the sink, my nausea overwhelming everything else. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my head. I just needed to get to New York. Just needed to get to the Hamptons. The last thing I had time for was some first-class, stewardess-seducing playboy. Even if he was really, really cute.

Then a voice came over the intercom.

“Attention passengers. We apologize for the inconvenience, but due to the storm, we are not able to land in New York, and have been rerouted to Columbus, Ohio. Once on the ground we will be able to make arrangements for alternative flights if New York is not your final destination, or lodging for the night if it is. Hopefully the storm will clear up in a few hours and we’ll be able to resume our trip.”

I sat down on the closed toilet lid.

Well, fuck.