I walked down the narrow aisle with a book jammed under my arm, and holding my carry-on bag in front of me as I focused on the labels for the rows. Due to the effect my nerves were having on my stomach, I was beginning to regret the meal I’d eaten during the two-hour layover in Houston.

I found my aisle seat, but it was occupied. Nobody sat in the window seat. This leg of my trip used a smaller plane—Wichita was hardly a bustling hub—and there were only two seats on either side of the aisle.

My shoulders stiffened, waiting for the request.

My guess was he had a traveling companion, but they’d booked their flight too late to get two seats together. I’d be willing to trade, but I hoped it would at least be to another aisle seat. I wasn’t claustrophobic at all, but I preferred the freedom of an aisle seat.

I stopped in front of my row and looked at the man with my eyebrows raised questioningly. He stood and stepped out into the aisle. I opened my mouth, but wasn’t entirely sure what to say. 

He hadn’t moved on. He stood there as if waiting to sit back down after letting me in. “I’m sorry.” I held up my boarding pass and pointed at the aisle seat. “Apparently, there’s some confusion. This is my seat, here.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

My whole body tensed at his tone. As if he simply assumed I’d switch seats for no obvious reason beyond he preferred mine. Which frankly—dammit—was likely to happen because I was non-confrontational and this wasn’t worth the fight. But it pissed me off that (a) he wasn’t asking, he was acting like it was a done deal, and (b) he didn’t even try to offer some justification. His words were accompanied by the kind of smile you see on people trying to sell you a load of crap, be it a used car or a dubious political position.

“Is there a problem?” The inquiry came from behind me—a male voice with a polite but firm tone.