First Class

Copyright © 2026 by Angela Bright

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Harmony Ellis had flown economy her entire life.

Not always miserably. Sometimes with snacks packed from home, sometimes with a neck pillow clipped to her carry-on, sometimes wedged between two strangers who both believed the armrest belonged to them. She knew the art of making herself small.

At five feet tall, she had spent most of her life making herself small.

But not today.

Today, she was in first class.

Today, her seat had more room than she knew what to do with. There was a real pillow tucked beside her, a folded blanket soft enough to make her suspicious, and a flight attendant had already asked if she wanted sparkling water before they had even pulled away from the gate.

Harmony smiled at the glass in her hand and tried not to look too delighted.

This was not just a flight.

This was the beginning.

Portland was behind her. London was ahead. Ten years of overworking, late nights, second-guessing, proving herself, and smiling through meetings where men repeated her ideas louder than she had said them had finally led to this.

Senior Brand Director.

London office.

Global campaign.

A real title. A real salary. A real chance.

She had upgraded with miles, a little cash, and the fierce conviction that the version of herself crossing an ocean deserved legroom.

Harmony ran her fingers over the edge of the armrest and grinned.

Ridiculous? Maybe.

Worth it? Absolutely.

The seat beside her was still empty, and she gave it a hopeful glance.

Maybe it would stay that way.

Maybe the universe, in celebration of her becoming the new and improved Harmony Ellis, would give her six uninterrupted hours to drink sparkling water, read half a novel, and pretend she belonged among people who did not flinch at airport prices.

Then someone stopped beside her row.

Harmony noticed his scent first.

Not strong. Not the aggressive cologne that arrived before the man did. This was quieter. Clean. Warm. Something woodsy beneath something refined.

She looked up.

And up.

Then up a little more.

Oh, come on.

The man standing in the aisle was enormous.

Not bulky in an awkward way. Not loud about it. Just tall. Broad. Built with the careless unfairness of someone who had never had to reach for the top shelf and had probably never once been described as “adorable” by a grocery store cashier.

Dark brown hair. Dark brows. Dark lashes. Crystal blue eyes.

And scruff.

Of course he had scruff.

Stupid, unfair, completely unnecessary scruff.

Harmony had the immediate and deeply inconvenient thought that his face looked expensive. Not just handsome. Expensive. The sort of face that belonged in ads for watches, whiskey, or remote mountain lodges where people pretended they had always known how to ride horses.

He glanced at her ticket, then at her, and offered a polite smile.

“I think I’m with you.”

Harmony’s brain, which had successfully managed ten years of career advancement and an international relocation, briefly became useless.

“With me?”

His mouth curved slightly. “In this row.”

“Oh.” She shifted quickly, even though she was already fully in her own seat. “Right. Yes. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.”

His voice was low and calm, the sort that seemed to settle instead of fill the space. He slid his bag into the overhead bin with no visible effort, then lowered himself into the seat beside her.

Even first class looked smaller with him in it.

Harmony watched, fascinated, as he adjusted his long legs and somehow managed not to invade her space. He was at least six-foot-four. Maybe taller. She was not good at estimating anything beyond “too tall to be reasonable.”

He fastened his seat belt, then looked over.

“Adrian,” he said.

“Harmony.”

Something moved across his face.

It was quick. Too quick to name.

“Harmony,” he repeated, and there was a weight to her name in his mouth that made her fingers tighten around her glass.

“Yes,” she said lightly, because apparently she had chosen cheerfulness as a survival strategy. “My parents were either hopeful or overly confident.”

His smile deepened. “Did it work?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

She looked at him then, really looked, and felt the first clear tug of danger.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Interest.

“I’m a work in progress,” she said.

“Aren’t we all?”

The flight attendant came by. Adrian ordered black coffee. Harmony ordered another sparkling water because champagne felt too obvious and she was trying not to become a complete cliché before takeoff.

They fell into the polite conversation strangers shared before a flight. Where they were coming from. Where they were going.

“London,” Harmony said, unable to stop the smile that rose with the word.

“Vacation?”

“New job.”

His attention sharpened, but gently. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. It’s a big one.”

“I can tell.”

She laughed. “Can you?”

“You said London as though it had been waiting for you.”

That stole a little of her practiced lightness.

For a moment, she did not know what to do with him.

He was not flirting exactly. Not in the obvious way. He was simply paying attention. Fully. Quietly. It made her feel seen in a way that was both flattering and deeply inconvenient on a transatlantic travel day.

“It has,” she admitted. “Or I’ve been waiting for it. Maybe both.”

“What do you do?”

“Brand strategy. I’ve been working toward this position for ten years.”

“Then London is lucky.”

Harmony blinked.

It should have sounded polished. A line. Something charming men said because they knew charm worked.

But Adrian said it with such steady sincerity that warmth spread through her before she could stop it.

“What about you?” she asked. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“Very mysterious.”

His mouth twitched. “Not especially. My family owns land and hospitality properties in Montana. Lodges, private retreats, conservation partnerships. I handle brand partnerships.”

“That sounds extremely fancy.”

“It sounds fancier than it is.”

“Says the giant man in first class who smells expensive.”

The words left her mouth before she could catch them.

Harmony froze.

Adrian went still.

For one horrifying second, she considered pulling the blanket over her head and living beneath it until they landed.

Then he laughed.

Not loudly. Not enough to draw attention. Just a quiet, genuine sound that changed his whole face.

“Do I?” he asked.

Harmony covered her eyes with one hand. “Please pretend I did not say that.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I’m sleep-deprived.”

“We haven’t taken off yet.”

“I’m emotionally pre-jet-lagged.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It is. Very serious. Usually fatal to dignity.”

His laugh came again, and Harmony lowered her hand.

He was looking at her now with open amusement, and it did something terrible to her confidence. It made it stronger.

“Well,” he said, “for what it’s worth, you do not smell expensive.”

She gasped. “Rude.”

“You smell…” His voice slowed.

She should have looked away.

She did not.

His gaze dropped, not to her body, but to her hand where it rested near the shared armrest. “Bright.”

Harmony’s smile softened before she could protect it. “That is not a smell.”

“It is for some people.”

Their fingers brushed.

It was nothing.

The plane had shifted. Her hand moved. His had been close. Skin met skin for less than a second.

But Adrian changed.