He’s My CEO? : One wild night in first class.

“Could you shift?” The growl comes from right behind my shoulder.

I spin around, startled, facing the guy looming in the queue. “Sorry?” The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. “You trying to squeeze past?”

“Nah. I just want those morons up front to get their act together. I’m gonna miss my bloody flight because of this circus.” He curls his lip, and a sour wave of booze hits me. “They’re pathetic.”

I pivot back forward. Fantastic. A pissed-up loudmouth right on my tail. Exactly the cherry I needed on this already rotten day.

Heathrow is absolute chaos. Fog and rain have snarled half the departures, and honestly, part of me is praying my flight gets pushed back too. Then I could bail, crawl back to the hotel room, and sleep until next month.

I’m really not up for any of this.

The guy starts griping to whoever’s behind him now, loud enough for the whole line to hear. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Why do some people have to be so aggressively unpleasant?

For what feels like forever probably ten solid minutes I endure the grumbling, the heavy sighs, the muttered curses. Finally I can’t stand it. I twist around. “They’re moving as quickly as humanly possible. No call for acting like a prat.”

“What?” He swings his red face toward me, voice rising. “Manners cost nothing,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“Manners cost nothing?” he mocks, volume cranked up. “Who the hell are you, my mum? Or just some stuck-up cow?”

I lock eyes with him and hold it. Yeah, I’m game. The last couple of days have been pure misery. I crossed an ocean for a wedding, only to spend the reception watching my ex plaster himself all over his shiny new girlfriend like I didn’t exist. Right now, I’m ready to verbally dismantle someone.

Don’t test me.

I face front again, anger simmering low in my gut.

Then my suitcase jolts hard. He’s kicked it. I whirl. “Cut that out.”

He leans in close, breath like a distillery explosion. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, sweetheart.”

I catch movement security drifting closer, eyes on him. The check-in staff must’ve flagged it. I plaster on a saccharine smile. “Kindly leave my luggage alone, please.”

“I’ll kick whatever the fuck I want.” He grabs the case and hurls it sideways. It skids across the tiles.

“Are you serious?” I yelp.

“Oi!” A voice from behind us. “Hands off her things. Security over here!”

My drunk friend wheels around and swings a wild fist at the guy who spoke up. Next thing I know, it’s a messy shoving match of grunts, curses, flailing arms.

Guards pour in from every direction. I’m jostled backward as the drunk keeps swinging and swearing. Brilliant. Just brilliant. This is precisely what my day was missing.

They finally wrestle him down and cuff him. One of the nicer officers retrieves my bag, dusting it off. “Sorry you had to deal with that. Come with me.” He unclips the queue barrier.

“Thank you.” I shoot an apologetic grimace at the people still waiting. Queue-jumping feels wrong, but right now I’m past caring. I trail after him like a scolded kid.

He leads me to a counter where a young guy looks up and flashes a warm grin. “Hey there.”

“Hi.”

“You alright?” he asks, genuine concern in his tone.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m okay.”

“Take good care of her,” the guard tells him with a wink before melting back into the crowd.

“Passport, please?”

I rummage in my bag, fish it out, hand it over. He glances at the photo and chuckles. God, it’s horrific. “Wanted poster material?” I joke.

“Might be. This you, or did they grab a random mugshot?” He’s laughing now.

I cringe-laugh. “Pray it’s not me, or I’m in serious trouble.”

He taps away at the keyboard. “Right, so you’re headed to New York today, connecting through…” He trails off, scanning the screen.

“Yep. Just hoping my seat isn’t anywhere near that charming gentleman.”

“He’s not boarding anything today except a police van,” he says, fingers flying. “Why anyone starts drinking before they even reach the terminal is beyond me.”

“You’d be amazed at the stories I hear,” he replies with a small sigh. He’s easy to talk to, refreshing after the last hour.

The boarding passes spit out. “I’ve bumped you up.”

“Sorry?”

“First class. Least we can do after that scene with your bag.”

My mouth drops open. “You don’t have to, I mean, really, it’s fine.”

He slides the tickets across with a big smile. “Have a brilliant flight.”

“Thank you. Seriously.” I’m gushing and I don’t even care.

He winks. I’m half a second from leaning over the counter and squeezing him in a hug, but I restrain myself. Gotta act like upgrades happen to me daily.

“VIP lounge is up on level one if you fancy it. Food and drinks are complimentary. Safe travels.” He nods toward the next person. “Next, please.”

I float through security wearing what’s probably the goofiest grin in Heathrow history. First class. Pinch me.

Three hours on, I step onto the plane feeling vaguely fraudulent. I skipped the lounge honestly, I looked wrecked. Hair scraped into a messy high ponytail, black leggings, oversized pink jumper, battered trainers. I did a swipe on some lip gloss and mascara in the bathroom, so small victories. If I’d had any clue about the upgrade, I’d have packed something chic instead of resembling someone who slept in a bus shelter. Whatever. No one I know is here to judge.

The flight attendant takes my ticket. “Left aisle, then right.”

“Cheers.” I checked seat number 1B.

Bugger. Aisle. No window.

I reach my row. The man by the window glances up. Striking blue eyes, easy smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I managed.

Oh hell. I’m parked next to what can only be described as unfairly attractive. And here I am looking like roadkill. Brilliant.

I fumble with the overhead bin. He’s on his feet in a second. “Allow me.” He lifts my bag like it weighs nothing and slots it away neatly. Tall, solid, jeans, plain white tee. And whatever cologne he’s wearing should be illegal, it's that good.

“Thanks,” I mumble, dragging fingers through my ponytail in a pointless attempt to tame it. Why didn’t I at least brush my hair properly?