By the time I arrived at the airport on Sunday night, I was utterly exhausted. The barbeque had been fun, at least as fun as a family-friendly event could be. I hadn't even bumped into Nolan, which was a plus. It was the after party that had really been the highlight of the night.

Once we'd gotten rid of the "crusties" – as Leah loving referred to our parents – we went to a bonfire and stayed out way too late drinking cheap college alcohol and yelling top-40s pop songs at the top of our lungs. It had been the perfect last night in town, but now I was walking through the airport like a zombie.

As if the late night and hangover weren't enough, my mother had taken the entire morning to repack my suitcase to the point where I was sure I would never find anything in it again. She also emptied my carefully packed boxes meant for storage, because she was certain I'd packed away something I actually needed to take on my trip. Spoiler alert: I hadn't.

Then she proceeded to lecture me the entire two-hour drive to the Atlanta airport about how I should be incredibly careful around the strangers I was sure to meet. She reminded me at least three times to keep all my backpack pockets zipped at all times, because there were pickpockets everywhere. When I started tapping vigorously away on my iPad to pass the time, she turned her entire body around to look at me in the backseat. With a dead serious expression, she said, "If I see you're getting up to any frisky business on your blog, I will personally fly out to wherever you are, and drag you back to Charleston. Do you understand, Brighton Rose?"

I rolled my eyes, and calmly reminded her, "Donna, I am twenty-two years old, and allowed to get up to as much frisky business as I want to." I paused to shutter at the fact that I'd actually used the phrase frisky business out loud. Before she could lecture me any more on the subject, I added, "I promise, you will not see any posts about any of that." My dad nearly choked on his soda, but my mother settled back into her seat, oblivious to the fact that I hadn't actually said that stuff wouldn't still go on.

So by the time I'd gotten my ticket, checked my luggage, said farewell to my parents, gone through security, found my seat on the plane, and stowed my carry-on, I was done for. I'd barely had time to whip out my Sir Purr Pillow Pet – Yes, I am the proud owner of a Pillow Pet, and no one is allowed to judge me for it – before my eyes closed. Luckily I'd bought a window seat, so I didn't need to worry about my seatmate climbing over me. Also, I had a very nice wall to lean against.

The last thing I heard before I was completely out of it was a soft laugh of the masculine sort. It was a nice laugh, and it made my smile into my pillow, even if I didn't know what the man was laughing about.

Hours later, I slowly reentered the world of the living. I felt a lot better, even if leaning on Sir Purr had suddenly gotten a lot less comfortable. My first assumption was that the pillow had fallen and I was leaning straight against the wall. Then I realized with a jolt, that I was most definitely not leaning against a wall.

My eyes opened and I realized that my worst airplane fear had just come true. More terrifying than a plane crash, or snakes on a plane, was falling asleep on my seatmate's shoulder. I sat up quickly, causing the man to jump. He laughed quietly, and I realized he must be the owner of the soft chuckle I'd heard before falling asleep. "I am so sorry!"

He smiled; it was a very nice smile, which made his brown eyes crinkle up. He had a little stubble, the kind only some men can pull off – he was one of them. And he was wearing a cardigan with a plaid shirt and a beanie. I was sure he'd put some serious thought into this outfit – every guy does, don't let them fool you – but it still looked effortless, so I let it slide. "It's alright," he said, still smiling. "Your pillow fell, so when you leaned over here I didn't want to wake you up." Not only was he terribly attractive, he was also British. That made it so much worse.

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

"If it bothered me that much, I would have woken you up," he assured me. "I'm Mason."

Just as he was introducing himself, I was opening my mouth to say, "I'm sorry," for a third time. I suddenly wished I were sitting on an exit row so I could just take a nose dive out of the plane right then.

"I know it may not be the most popular name, but I quite like it." He smirked. "Now Beatrice, on the other hand-"

"How did you-?"

He pointed to the boarding pass I'd haphazardly stuck in the seat pocket. "Beatrice is the sort of name you feel sorry about someone having."

"How long was I asleep?"

He shrugged. "Three hours."

I wasn't normally the blushing type, but I felt the heat rush to my face and knew I must be as red as a tomato. "I am so sorry."

"You already said that," he reminded me. "A few times actually. Don't worry, you didn't even drool."

I starred at him for a moment, at a loss for words. Finally I backtracked to him calling me Beatrice. "It's Brighton actually. My name is Brighton. It's my middle name, but people just call me Brighton."

He smiled again. Or maybe he was really just laughing at me, but was too polite to do it out loud. "I'm from Brighton, actually."

"I'm from Charleston," I said, dumbly.

"Another city by the ocean," he noted. "Where are you going?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure this whole plane is going to London. If it isn't, I'm on the wrong plane." I paused. "You meant where's my final destination, duh. Copenhagen, or at least that's my final destination at the moment. I'm sort of going where the wind blows me. Who knows where I'll end up."

"Too bad," he said.

"Too bad?" I repeated.

"That you aren't staying in England, it's nice."

"I've been," I said quickly. "To London, twice actually, Dover and Bath too. England's nice."

"Have you been to Brighton?" He asked curiously. He didn't seem to be laughing at me anymore, if he even had been to start with.

"No, but I'd like to go."

"See, it's too bad you aren't staying in England. I'd show you around."

My stomach did somersaults. Was this seriously gorgeous man actually telling me he'd show me around his city? Wasn't that basically a date? Or maybe he was just being polite. "Maybe I'll add it to my itinerary at some point." I figured that was the safest answer. Vague enough to not sound like I was jumping at the offer, but not flat out turning him down either.

As the conversation died down, I pulled out my iPad. If Mason was right, and I'd been asleep for three hours, that meant I still had another six till we landed. That was plenty of time to finish today's blog post, and I could throw it up before I left for Copenhagen. I added a paragraph about the swanky, new Terminal F in that Atlanta airport. Then with a sigh I went on to tell the story of my most recent embarrassing moment. Readers always loved a good embarrassing moment.

"What are you writng?" Mason asked.

"A blog post, I have a travel blog," I explained, glancing over "It's sort of funding my trip. Well, that and the bank of dad, which I'm trying not to rely too heavily on."

"You can make a living off a blog?"

"Well, if you know how to travel right you can. It's actually cheaper for a recent grad to travel, than to move to a city and look for a job. My second flight is on a budget airline, and I'm staying in a hostel in Copenhagen. So, yeah, if you travel smart, you can get by."

"I wasn't being judgmental, I was just wondering."

I shrugged. "I didn't think you were." I continued typing the story of how I'd fallen asleep on his shoulder, and more or less the conversation we had after I woke up. At least half of my followers were from my beauty blogging days. I was sure they'd love little tidbits about people I met along the way, especially cute boys with accents. It was for those same followers benefit that I attached a photo of my travel outfit, and then quickly added a one-sentence description of Mason's appearance. At least I told myself the second part was only for their benefit.

"Writing about how dashingly handsome I am?" Mason teased. I jumped about a foot in the air and stopped typing abruptly.

"Nope." It was only a half-lie. "But I did tell them about falling asleep on your shoulder."

"What's your blog called?" He asked. I purposely squinted my eyes and typed more furiously, pretending to be so engrossed in the post that I missed his question. I didn't need him finding out how "dashingly handsome" I really thought he was.

"Well, I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up when they bring the food around." He patted my shoulder and I glanced at him in confusion. "Hey, it's only fair that you repay the favor right?" I was about to make a snappy comment, when he grinned to let me know he was joking. He tugged one of those neck pillows from his bag. It looked like the kind of thing that would keep you from falling onto your seatmate's shoulder. I would definitely be picking one of those up at the next airport gift shop.