I was the first one on the plane, right after the pilot and the flight attendants. Probably because they'd finally figured out who I was. And because they could see the panic written all over my face.

As a near-recluse, I knew I was clueless about the ways of the everyday world, but not so out-of-touch to know first class on Virgin Atlantic wasn't so awful. The airline had dubbed it "Upper Class," which I found obnoxious in its classism. Still, it was more comfortable than coach, and as the flight attendant handed me a pair of packaged silk pajamas, I recalled these luxuries from when I had flown some years before.

There were two wide seats to a row, plenty of legroom and pre-flight cocktails. I stuffed the pajamas in the seat pocket, knowing I'd never be relaxed enough to doze off.

The attendant, a perky man with a shaved head and a diamond earring, rested his arms on the seatbacks. I was in the seat next to the window, so I could look out and make sure everything was okay during takeoff, landing, and in-between.

"You're afraid of flying? Well, don't be. This is a great route, usually a smooth flight. And the pilots are excellent. I'll take care of you. Would you care for champagne?"

I nodded while rolling the edges of my pashmina between my fingers. He'd told me his name, but I'd forgotten because my heart was pounding so fast. Had I remembered to touch the metal side of the plane with my pinky as I boarded? It was one of my rituals. Or had been, right before I stopped flying four years ago.

I was so scattered and scared I couldn't remember what I'd done only moments before. I pulled a Vogue magazine out of my bag and rested it on my thighs. Tightened my lap belt again and peered out the window.

"Well. Looks like we're seatmates."

I swiveled my head toward the aisle. It was the vulgar man from the security line. Involuntarily, I emitted a small groan. I used to be better at holding back my emotions. Now, not so much. Especially when a pig was about to sit next to me.

The man grinned in the direction of my chest, and I wished I hadn't worn a form-fitting black sweater. I'd thought I'd dressed inconspicuously in all black, an armor of sorts against the panic that was sure to come. I glanced down and spied a hint of cleavage. I yanked the V-neck of my sweater toward my collarbone.

Ignoring the man, I thumbed through my magazine, and that's when the attendant returned with my champagne.

"I'll keep these coming for you," the attendant said. I unlocked my tray table, and he set the glass of bubbly in front of me.

"And for me, as well," my seatmate replied, shoving a briefcase into the overhead compartment. "This is going to be a great flight, right, girl?" His voice boomed through the cabin. Was he talking to me? I looked up. The man pointed a finger and thumb at me and cocked the thumb, like a gun. He made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Right, girl?"

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I didn't respond. Eight hours next to this insufferable beast?

The man plopped next to me and pointed at my glass. A few beads of sweat had formed at his temples. "Dom or Moët? You look like a classy broad, flying in cashmere and pearls. Probably Moët." He snapped his fingers above his head, apparently trying to summon the attendant. I grabbed my glass and took a long gulp, closing my eyes as the sparkling liquid slid down my throat. This savage didn't even know Moët et Chandon produced the Dom Perignon vintage.

"Hey, you don't want to wait and toast with me—"

"Excuse me."

I opened my eyes when I heard the low buzz of another male voice. It was the blue-eyed man from the TSA line, standing over my awful seatmate.

"I'm so sorry to ask you this, sir." Blue-Eyes rested his hand on the man's shoulder in a chummy and familiar way. "But my office bungled my reservation and those of my wife here."

He gestured at me with an open palm.

His wife? Holding my champagne flute in mid-air, I reared back. The handsome stranger winked at me, an almost imperceptible gesture. I wasn't sure what I surprised me more—that he was trying to save me from the vulgar guy or that we'd all been in the TSA line together and were now on the same flight to London.

I blinked a few times, hoping both would go away. I wanted to be left alone with my thoughts and my anxiety. The pilot needed my positive vibes. Irrational, I knew, but I wanted nothing to do with either man in front of me.

"My secretary somehow managed to get us seated apart. You know how these things happen." Blue-Eyes again gestured in my direction. I gaped.

"Would you mind switching seats with me? Mine's actually better—in the first row, the row that's one seat instead of two. Lots of legroom, a swivel seat. Surely you understand. We're newlyweds and all..." The corner of Blue-Eyes' mouth lifted. I was uneasy with how he'd commanded this situation so fluidly.

"Oh, Jesus, of course. Of course. I wouldn't want to get in the way of some mile-high action, if you know what I mean."

"Thank you, sir."

The man stood up and clapped Blue-Eyes on the shoulder, yelled something about congratulations, then wrested his briefcase from the overhead compartment. He lurched forward several rows.

I took another sip of champagne. We hadn't even taken off and this flight was already a disaster.

Blue-Eyes took his phone out of the inner pocket of his pinstripe grey suit jacket and placed it on his seat. Then, with precision, he took off the jacket, folded it in half, and placed it in the overhead compartment. This man's movements were fluid and careful.

He picked up his phone and sat, smoothing his deep red tie with a big hand. He grinned.

"Your wife." I said this as a statement, not a question. "How clever. Why did you switch seats with him?" I gave him a side-eye.

"I know a damsel in distress when I see one."

I rolled my eyes. Maybe sitting next to this guy would be even worse.

He chuckled, a rich, deep noise, and something inside me hummed despite the ridiculous situation. "You can thank me now."

With a dainty sip, I looked away from his handsome face and finished my champagne. "I guess I should, although by the time we get to London, you're probably going to curse me and wish you'd have left me with that terrible person."

"Hardly." He held out a hand that looked like it should belong to a prizefighter, not a businessman. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Colin."

"Samantha." I leaned in his direction and inhaled. He smelled like ice and mastery and a hint of chocolate. Dangerous, for a certain kind of woman.

I wasn't that kind of woman. Not anymore.

We shook, and I was surprised how pleasantly warm and smooth and firm his hand was, the sensations all at once. He seemed like a take-charge guy, perfect if we experienced a disaster on the plane. And he was muscular and strong, if the way he filled out that dress shirt out was any indication. This was a positive development. Maybe sitting next to him wouldn't be so bad. I exhaled.

"Normally," Colin said, pausing, probably so I could admire his low baritone, "I fly on charter planes. And when I don't, I get pre-check at the TSA line. But today's been a disaster all the way around."

"You're telling me," I muttered.

"And this plane. They call this first class?"

"Upper class."

He snorted. "Usually this airline has individual pod seats. This is an older plane so we're still in this antiquated seating arrangement."

I narrowed my eyes at him, both at his arrogance and at the mention of this being an older plane. Why did he have to plant that seed in my mind?

Two flutes of champagne appeared as if by magic. He set his phone on the tray and lined it up so it perfectly paralleled the edge.

He pointed at my thick magazine, which was sitting next to my glass. "That dress...it looks familiar. I think my niece has that. Or maybe her mother, who's my sister-in-law. Or perhaps both."

"Well, both are possible. I designed them for women and girls." I reminded myself not to babble because I was nervous about the impending takeoff. But we had to talk about something and fashion was the only thing I loved these days. The one thing I knew.

Colin tilted his head. "You designed those?"

I opened the magazine to page 236, to the eight-page profile of me, along with dozens of photos of Il Palmetto, the sprawling, palm-tree-lined estate that I'd bought and restored with love. It was my home base, my office, my world.

I handed the magazine wordlessly to Colin.

"Wow. That is you," he said, seemingly impressed. He read the first sentence aloud. "It's difficult to imagine the petite and ethereal Samantha Citrouille in any place but her tropical Palm Beach estate. One of her slogans is, 'it's always sunny somewhere,' and at her home, which boasts both a vast orchid garden and a miniature citrus grove in the courtyard, it's hard to imagine anything but sunshine."

He looked up and smiled, and that's when I noticed the aurora of white ringing his pupils.

"Very good. You said my last name correctly. Not many do."

Colin repeated my complicated name with a perfect accent. It flowed effortlessly out of his mouth. His voice was so low that I wanted to lean in to hear him better. The tone set off a tingle starting in my scalp and working its way down my spine.

"Not everyone is part of the untamed horde, like your former seatmate."

This made me chuckle, and Colin grinned. Oh, he was cocky, all right.

"You must be French, with that last name." He spoke my full name again, and I wondered where he learned the language.

"French-Canadian."

"Samantha Citrouille. Samantha Pumpkin," he murmured, correctly translating my last name into English.

"Yes. But people call me Sam. Sam C. Family history has it that my ancestors were farmers in the Loire Valley. Before they founded Quebec and made their fortune bootlegging alcohol from Canada to New England alongside the Kennedys. My family settled in Boston."

"A charming backstory, Samantha Pumpkin. And a gorgeous estate, to boot. Palm Beach. I've always enjoyed it, but haven't spent hardly enough time there. Ah, I see here the property's historic. Fitting for a fashion socialite."

I straightened my spine and looked down my nose at Colin. Because I lived on the island and cultivated a certain attitude, people assumed I was both blessed with a lifetime of money and a frivolous frequenter of the island's party circuit. Both were only partially true.

"I'm not a socialite. I'm a businesswoman."

"Of course you are." The way he said it was a touch condescending, as if he didn't quite believe me. He might as well have followed up with a dear or sweetheart.

I smirked and watched his eyes scan the article, lingering on the part about how, against many odds, I'd wowed the fashion world as a poor twentysomething. How I'd gotten a loan from a famous and rich Palm Beach socialite who'd loved my designs because they'd made her feel joy. How I'd bought the rundown Il Palmetto property, restored it, and now ran my fashion line from there, becoming a multimillionaire by the time I was thirty.

Colin glanced at me. "Interesting, a New England girl in Palm Beach. Perhaps you know my parents? They keep a small vacation cottage on the island and visit occasionally. Gerald and Mary King?"

I frowned. "Doesn't sound familiar. But I'm something of a recluse."

He continued to scan the article. "I see that as well. It says here that you're known for your lavish parties, but rarely leave your estate. Is that true?"

I nodded. "I only give parties to help raise money for the county's food bank. It's my main charity, although I support others. Usually I'm too busy working to party or travel." I stared pointedly at him, and he raised his eyebrows slightly.

"And yet, you're on a plane now. Vacation?"

I sniffed. "This week's a special occasion, which is why I'm on a plane. I'm a little eccentric. Sadly."

____