I was jerked forward in my seat, and my eyes flew open in a flash.

"Ow," I muttered, blinking. Had I really fallen asleep? I usually wasn't comfortable enough to-

"Uh- hi."

Then I registered where I had been resting. Or more accurately, who I had been resting upon. I sat straight up, cheeks burning. Oh my god. I could not believe myself. I had been sleeping on him?! Oh god what if I snored? Or worse, drooled. Was that worse? They were both bad. Why me? Why me?!

"I am so sorry," I stammered out in a rush, praying my face wasn't a giant tomato. "I don't normally- I am so sorry."

He shrugged, "You didn't drool or snore." It was like he could read my mind. Creepy.

"I didn't mind."

"Well- thank you," I said, swallowing hard. What else was I supposed to say? My mouth felt dry. God this was embarrassing. It should be illegal for one person to be so embarrassing. "How long was I out for?" I asked. Maybe we were almost there. Maybe we were about to land and this nightmare would end.

"Not long," he replied.

Well, damn it. I did my best not to look him in the eye. They were sort of pretty, actually, his eyes. Now that I could see them up close. A kind of hazel green color, with tiny gold flecks dotting the iris. He had long lashes too, like a puppy dog. Wait— why was I focused on his eyelashes? I had been silent for way too long. I hope he didn't catch me staring. He probably thought I was weird enough already. God— how on earth was I going to get through this flight? I could not survive ten hours more of this.

There was another bump of the aircraft, my seat rattling beneath me. Then again, maybe I wouldn't even make it ten more hours. My heartbeat thudded loudly in my chest. I'd always been a little afraid of flying, especially over water. I didn't dare glance out the window, and I felt my stomach drop as the plane shook back and forth like a ping pong ball.

Without thinking, my hand shot out to grip the armrest between the two seats. It was an instinct, to ground myself. A security measure to feel more stable. However, my instincts had failed to realize that someone's hand was already occupying the shared arm rest.

My fingers brushed his, and my cheeks burned bright red for the second time in five minutes. You've got to be freakin kidding me.

"Sorry— again," I apologized, heavily resisting the urge to smack myself upside the head. How idiotic could I get? All I wanted was to not draw attention to myself. Obviously the universe had decided to spite me today. "I didn't mean to— planes make me kinda...jumpy."

He merely smiled, seemingly unaffected, "That's alright. I think we all have a healthy fear of planes."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," he nodded, continuing, "flying is one of those things that we can never truly master. A lot of it's left up to fate. Mother Nature really, and I think that as humans we hate that feeling of being out of control."

I think my jaw fell open a little. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Never in a million years did I think any of those words would come out of that mouth. I had imagined that when he spoke it was only in a variety of "bros" "whassups" and sports references. But— that was the most well articulated idea about why people don't like airplanes I've ever heard. It made so much sense too. Who was this guy? I was stunned. He was still talking about his theory.

"And—," he paused, evidently noticing my poorly concealed surprise, "what?"

"Um— nothing."

His lips twitched, "I'm smarter than I look, that's what you're thinking."

I arched an eyebrow, "And you know what I'm thinking?"

"Yes." He said it with zero hesitation, breaking into a full bodied grin. "I'm smart, remember?"

Cocky too, I thought privately. His smile was sorta cute, though. Even if it was smug. This was not at all what I had expected. Apparently, my first impression had been entirely wrong. I did not like being wrong, and I had a sneaking feeling he knew that and was using it to his advantage. Though how he knew that I had no idea.

"For the record I didn't think you were dumb," I told him defensively, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. Although I sort of had. I mean, I'd thought he was a typical football jock. The ones who wear their letterman jackets everywhere, and are sometimes nice enough, but some you have to cover your drink around at parties. The boys who I hated getting paired with for group projects, and whose voices always sounded like they were half asleep. It wasn't a bad thing. Just not the type of person I chose to spend my time with.

This boy was definitely not a typical jock. Sure, he had the jacket in his carry on, the football pin, and the— well, the build of one. But his vocabulary ranged above the words awesome and cool, and his voice was intriguing.

"Oh, really?" he asked, disbelieving. He folded his arms, waiting.

I never backed down from a challenge. Maybe he knew that too. And there had been a few things that confused me initially in my perception.

"You were listening to Taylor Swift in the airport," I replied. Take that, strange jock not jock guy, who was a whole lot cuter than I'd originally thought. "And not singles either, songs that you'd have to be a dedicated fan to listen to. No local listens to 'The Other Side of the Door.'"

"Well, they should," he smiled at me and I suddenly felt nervous. Guys that attractive should not be allowed to smile. It was dangerous. "It has a brilliant bridge."

I agreed. It was one of my favorite tracks on Fearless for that exact reason. But I wasn't going to let him know that.

"That!" I exclaimed, pointing my finger. "That right there!"

"What?"

"The accent," I explained. "That was the second thing that threw me off. I wasn't sure at first, but you have a slight British accent. It goes in and out, but— it's definitely there." Now it was his turn to look surprised.

"Wow— yeah, my mom is from Chelsea. I used to spend summers there." He tilted his head, "I can't believe— most people don't pick up on that."

I lifted a careless shoulder, "Guess I'm smart too." More like, my grandma wanted to be an actress and practiced her accents for me when I was younger. But still.

"Oh I knew that," he said, mouth quirking up. "Unlike me, you look smart."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. I decided to take it as such, because why not? I had been reading a rather large novel.

"Despite the fact that you were reading a murder mystery."

Okay now he was teasing me. What did he have against murder mysteries? They were good!

I rolled my eyes, sarcasm practically dripping off my words. This boy probably hadn't picked up a book since the third grade. "Right. And what would you prefer?"

Without missing a beat, he said, "Well, I'm more of Jane Austen man myself. I enjoy Kerouac of course, and Virginia Woolf. Agatha Christie's alright, I suppose, but I always come back to Pride and Prejudice. Come on, who doesn't love Mr. Darcy?"

My jaw really did drop that time. Seriously. Who was this guy? I recovered quickly, raising my chin haughtily, "Agatha Christie is a macabre goddess. Thank you very much."

"So you don't like Mr. Darcy?"

"Of course I like Mr Darcy."

He tapped the side of his head sagely, winking. Well, that was annoying. Using Mr Darcy against me. That was the lowest form of book sabotage. He would not get away with disrespecting my queen Agatha Christie. I'd And Then There Were None his ass before he could count to ten.

Before I could retort, however, there was a melodic ding. The speakers crackled to life, "Flight attendants please return to the cabin. All passengers secure you seatbelts, we've hit a patch of rough weather."

I gulped. That was not a good sign. I fiddled with my necklace. It had been Abby's. She'd given it to me when she'd left for college. The whole reason I was on this plane was because of her. If I died I was going to kill her for moving to a freakin island.

"You know," I cleared my throat. As much as I didn't want to talk to him, it was a distraction. "I actually think my fear of planes is mostly due to the Season 8 finale of Grey's Anatomy."

He smirked, "Grey's Anatomy and murder mysteries? Maybe you aren't as smart as you look"

Laughter bubbled up in my throat, and a snort escaped me before I could stop it. The boy was far too delighted with my reaction, eyes lighting up.

"I'm Jake Sullivan Jones, by the way. Jacob actually," he corrected himself, "but no one calls me that besides my mother." He extended his hand.

"I'm Sophia." I took his hand, shaking it. "Sophia Randall."