CHAPTER TWO: MR. PRETTY-BOY MODEL/RUTHLESS BUSINESSMAN/DICKWAD

Ana had a better concept of money now that she didn't have any, but she wasn't by nature a penny-pincher. From her perspective, time and effort were worth a certain cost as well, so instead of trudging a massive suitcase through the subway or taking a pricy cab, she tried a car service for the first time.

It was relatively affordable and everyone always raved about the kinds of cars they were driven in. After figuring out the app — and accidentally ordering three pickups — she eagerly awaited her ride. A 1989 hoopty pockmarked with dents was her grand chariot.

"Figures," she grumbled.

But the driver, an eager young man named Marc who'd just arrived from Guinea, grew on her. She wasn't fond of small talk with strangers but quickly warmed to Marc's incessant chattering.

"I immigrated here too, from Romania, when I was a child," she told her excited chauffeur. "Did you have to leave family behind?"

"Yes my parents and younger sisters are still in Guinea, but it's not the best place to start a life. So I'm studying in the U.S. and hope to bring them over one day."

"I'm sure they're proud of you. What are you studying?"

"Finance."

"You'll make money," she muttered wryly, scrunching her nose in both disgust and envy. "Where do you go to school?"

"University of Maryland. I love it."

"My alma mater."

"Really?" he beamed. "That's amazing!"

Not really, she thought, considering they both lived in Maryland, but she appreciated his enthusiasm.

"When did you graduate?" he asked.

"I finished in 2003. It's a great school. I loved it too."

"Oh my goodness 2003! I was just a baby back then! A baby. That was sooo long ago," Marc shrieked.

Talk about needing a lesson in how not to talk to older women. But Ana liked her loquacious new West African friend and let his ageism go. "Yes it was a while ago. Time has a way of slipping past you," she said, wistful for the simplicity of college life.

When they pulled up to the drop-off area, Marc leaped out to help with her bags, only to be practically mowed over by a black sedan. An intimidating, sharply dressed man emerged from the passenger side of the Audi. Or was it a BMW? Or Benz? She could never tell.

Ana was too busy drooling over the car's occupant. He sported an expensively tailored black suit, a thick, wavy mop of copper hair and sexy, barely there stubble on his chin. His perfectly symmetrical face was defined by those angular lines and rakish features that baby-face male models dream of having. He was good-looking and definitely knew it. Over six feet of bulky muscle didn't hurt either.

Ana was snapped out of her admiration by his booming voice. "Watch it! For God's sake this entire area isn't yours to commandeer," he roared, giving both her and Marc a condescending glare. Way to ruin a perfect mouth — by opening it.

"Don't worry about it," she consoled her shaken, deer-in-the-headlights driver. "He doesn't own the curbside drop-off either. He's just a douche," she winked, earning her a throaty laugh from her Guinean comrade.

Ana wasn't a wallflower but she didn't actively seek out confrontations, so she brushed off Mr. Pretty-Boy Model/Ruthless Businessman/Dickwad, who barreled into the airport without a second glance back.

As usual Ana's stellar sense of direction kicked in once she entered the airport, so she circled around the ticketing area a few times. Once she decoded which line was hers, she looked up to find Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad tapping his designer shoe on the marble floor, waiting impatiently for her to get out of his way — again.

"This line is for business class only," he patronizingly informed her. She wanted to say that yes, sometimes even plebeians fly business class, but refrained. "Yes I know," she told him brusquely, moving in front of him.

Christian was already fuming because his jet was out of commission and his assistant had accidentally stuck him in business class, not a private first-class suite, which were now booked. What kind of fucking airline only has 12 first-class suites?

Adding insult to nonexistent injury, a pending investment deal was going south, forcing him to trek to Paris, a city he hated, to salvage it. The last place he wanted to be in was in was yet another sterile airport surrounded by travelers with their heads in the clouds — or, rather, up their asses. Christian pointedly looked down at the petite brunette in front of him who seemed to be staring off into la-la land.

As much as she despised flying, airports always held a certain appeal to Ana. Shiny and busy, they represented an escape of sorts, a clean slate. She even loved their clinical smell — like the high of a new car smell. She was jolted out of her reverie by a terse command behind her. "Go," Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad motioned when a counter opened up.

Ana just nodded blankly and made her way to the woman with a fake smile and caked-on makeup plastered on her face. She felt dowdy by comparison in her sneakers, jeans and plain white shirt. It's a designer-label shirt at least, she consoled herself, even if it did come from the outlet.

When another ticketing agent opened up, she saw Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad in her periphery, occasionally hearing him bark commands like, "I expect the internet access to be decent this time around" and "absolutely no more delays" and something about "a dozen fucking seats."

He was used to getting his own way — and people bending over backward to give it to him. I wonder how they would tolerate this prick if he didn't have his looks or money to lord over their bowed heads.

Once she got the full business-class tutorial, Ana resumed wandering the airport aimlessly — in part to avoid bumping into Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad at the TSA checkpoint.

Sure enough, though, once she reached the security ropes, there was her erstwhile travel companion. He let out an exasperated sigh but begrudgingly nodded for her to get in line first, extending her a modicum of courtesy. She gave him a tight smile and mentally flipped him the bird.

Even the pre-clearance security lines were filling up with inept travelers, amping up Christian's frustration. When he saw Ana fidget with her laptop in the explosion that was her carry-on bag, while a phone dangled out of her unzipped purse, he hit his limit. "FYI, I know you might be a novice at this flying concept but phones count as electronics," he reprimanded her as if she were a schoolgirl.

She hit her limit as well. "You don't say? I was going to leave it in there along with the 30 ounces of mystery liquid I have," she fired back, oozing sarcasm.

His head snapped back in surprise as she stood to her full height — a whopping five feet, two inches that barely reached up to his chest.

Nice rack, but not going to happen lady.

Nice dark eyes, to go with your black heart jerkweed.

"I was merely trying help ma'am. You seem a bit overwhelmed," he sneered, emphasizing the "ma'am" for good measure. Nothing sets a woman off like disparaging her age.

She narrowed her eyes at him. It's miss not ma'am motherfucker.

"As overwhelmed as I am by your kindness, sir, I can manage putting a phone in a plastic tub. But thank you for the reminder."

Ana craned her neck all the way up to give him the stink eye and then, to make sure she fully conveyed her displeasure, took her sweet time offloading the rest of her electronics just to piss him off. Crumpled tissues, hand sanitizer, pens and partially unwrapped candy all came tumbling out.

A ghost of a smile crept on his lips. Christian was impressed by her resolve. She was no pushover like the lackeys he was accustomed to. But he was still in a rush and her haphazard packing job left a lot to be desired, so he charged past her as soon as they cleared the security queue.

Unfazed, Ana headed to the nearest bar to quell her pre-flight jitters, unaware that she had access to a business-class lounge. Amazing how leisurely the whole airport experience can be when you don't have emails to check or work to do.

When it was time to board, Ana was relieved that Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad was nowhere in sight. Of course, she also hadn't realized that business-class passengers board the plane first.

Dazzled by the spacious opulence around her, she eventually located her seat number — only to find a gorgeous yet irate set of molten grey eyes staring back at her. Why should I even be surprised that he'd be next to me? Damn karma. Bitch hates me.

Ana decided to extend her scowling seatmate an olive branch and gave him a friendly smile to ease the tension. His response: nada — just a vacant stare. Alrighty then, so much for the friendly skies.

She tried to reach her window seat without touching Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad but her attempts to avoid him only backfired, as her overstuffed purse swung in his face and her book tumbled onto his lap. "Careful," he warned, throwing her an icy glare as he shoved the book back in her hand.

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched her struggle to settle in, cramming her phone, laptop, magazines, book, pillow, earplugs, jacket and a bottle of water in the ample seat pockets. With only an iPhone and Blackberry neatly stashed in his, he looked over at the shit-storm next to him. Doesn't this idiot realize they have water in business class? Has she ever even flown before?

An uncomfortable silence followed for the next 30 minutes as the plane ripped off the tarmac. He noticed her bare-white knuckles gripping the armrest for dear life and was fairly certain she hadn't blinked in the last half hour. Great, a nervous flier. This keeps getting better and better.

"Sir, may I offer you something to drink?" the flight attendant asked, making her rounds.

His response was gruff, bordering on rude, as he ordered a double bourbon on the rocks — no thank you at the end.

Requesting champagne, Ana gave the unflappable woman the appreciative smile she deserved. But when she reached over to grab the flute, Ana accidentally spilled a tiny amount on Mr. Pretty-Boy Dickwad's elegant black suit.

"Crap I'm so sorry," Ana exclaimed. "Here let me get you a tissue. I'm truly sorry."

"Yes I'm sure that was truly unintentional," he replied, staring at her with thinly veiled contempt. Ana was stunned into silence by the venom in his voice, so the flight attendant stepped in to apologize profusely. "Sir I'm so sorry," she said, trying to placate him while dabbing at the few invisible drops of bubbly that had splashed onto the lapel of his jacket. Ana gathered her wits long enough to meekly offer him a crumpled tissue from her purse.

Christian just struggled to control his breathing as he silently prayed to the Gods to keep from flaying the two hens clucking around him.