"Excuse me; you're sitting in my seat!"
The voice, a rich baritone, carried a definite edge.
Amanda Bennington looked up into a stranger's dark, flashing eyes--eyes that snapped an order for her to move. "My ticket is clearly stamped row 8, seat B." She held her boarding pass in front of his face. "See for yourself."
"Ain't that the truth," the voice rumbled. "'A' is always a window seat on a plane. It's the one I booked and it's the one you're sitting in now."
Amanda's face heated from her stupidity and the fire surged down to her black Italian designer pumps.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll move."
"Thank you. Wise decision."
The grouch's mouth reverted to a tight grim line beneath his Tom Selleck graying moustache. Amanda grabbed her purse from beneath the seat in front and switched to what she assumed was Seat B. She leaned back to avoid the silver-haired passenger's grizzly bulk as he squeezed past her scrunched knees. There wasn't much room in the big jet's economy class. She caught a drift of alcohol on his breath, but pain distracted her when one of his giant clodhoppers landed on her toes. "Ouch! That hurt!"
"Sorry, you shudda moved into the aisle and let me in first." The oaf maneuvered onto his throne by the window.
"Turkey," Amanda muttered under her breath.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Er ... I said I'm not perky. I've been up since dawn, and even at that I had to race across Seattle to get to the airport in time."
Amanda hoped no one would take the empty aisle seat beside her on the early morning flight. She might move there if he breathed on her again.