Consider this. You are sitting in the middle seat on a cross-country flight. You feign sleep to dissuade the chatty woman on your left from reciting the unsavory traits of the sister in-law she is on her way to visit. Your head lolls to the right and you study the man against the window. His long legs are stretched out under the seat in front of him. His profile is a pensive one, complete with a muscle pumping on an unshaven jaw. From beneath your veil of lashes you see his hand grip the armrest. The hand is muscular and scarred. Construction? Combat?
You lift your lashes slightly and determine that his attire is expensive. You sense his discomfort in the crisp white button-down shirt that stretches so tight across his chest that you think he might go all Superman on you.
As you raise your glance, you collide with dark, soulful eyes. The man whispers an urgent appeal. "I need your help."
You think, "Oh my God, he wants to smuggle something off this plane." Or. "Oh my God, he needs me to kiss him so that the suspicious-looking guy in row 32 does not see his face." Or. "Oh my God, he needs me to pose as his wife when we land in San Francisco."
Your inner romantic suspense demon is in full force!
That deep voice sounds again as you hold your breath.
"I'm sorry," he says, "but I need your copy of Sky Mall. They didn't leave one in my seat back."