I glance at him again. He's looking straight ahead, jaw tight. Like he's holding something back. Like he's mad. Like he has the right to be mad.

Oh, hell no.

I snap.

"Aren't you a billionaire?" I hiss, voice low enough not to alert the entire cabin but sharp enough to slice through the champagne-fueled silence. "Shouldn't you be in a private jet somewhere? Counting your money? Dodging tabloid engagements?"

He turns to me slowly, like I'm the annoying fly buzzing too close to his bourbon. "Shouldn't you be busy blogging about bubble baths and avocado toast?"

Touché.

"I am busy. Trying to survive this six-hour flight without committing a...