Page 103 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Sebastian’s hand squeezes my waist, a gentle reminder to breathe.
His mother’s lips curve upward. Not the practiced social smile, but something genuine that reaches her eyes. “I’d like to hear about them sometime,” she says. “Perhaps dinner next week? The four of us?”
“Dinner next week sounds...” My brain scrambles. Terrifying? A social minefield? An excellent opportunity to show my complete lack of silverware etiquette? “...Lovely,” I finish.
“Wonderful.” She gives my hands a last squeeze, then releases them. “My assistant will contact your assistant with the details.”
Before I can blurt out that I don’t have an assistant, just a phone that only works when it feels like it, and isn’t dropping calls over Wyoming, Sebastian’s father steps forward, taller than Sebastian, more silver at the temples, with the same piercing blue eyes that seem to dissect everything they see.
“Well said,” he offers with a curt nod. No smile. Just two words.
But the slight incline of his head feels monumental. It’s not a warm hug, but I recognize it for what it is—acceptance, Lockhart-style. From a man who probably hasn’t given approval without a financial statement attached in decades.
They melt back into the crowd, Sebastian’s mother engaging with a woman draped in diamonds, his father nodding at a man in a bow tie.
“Did that just happen?” I whisper, gripping Sebastian’s arm. “Did your mother just invite me to dinner? Voluntarily? Without a court order or a ransom demand?”
“She did.” His smile stretches wide, a genuine, joyful smile. “And did you notice that nod from my father? That’s a bear hug in Lockhart terms.”
He pulls me close, his arms wrapping around my waist. The ballroom buzzes around us, but in his embrace, the noise fades. I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the expensive fabric.
“They’re never going to understand my snow globe collection, are they?” I murmur against his lapel.
“Probably not,” he admits, his voice a low rumble. “But they don’t have to understand everything to accept you.”
The crowd swirls, the music swells, and cameras flash,but none of it matters. In this moment, I know with perfect clarity—I don’t need their approval. I don’t need to fit into this world of wealth and privilege.
I just need this man who looks at me like I’m the most fascinating puzzle he’s ever encountered, who loves me not despite my differences, but because of them.
Sebastian’s fingers thread through mine, warm and steady. “Ready to face the rest of the evening, Captain Monroe?”
I rise onto my tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his lips, the crowd forgotten. “With you? I’m ready for anything.”
And I mean it. Whatever turbulence lies ahead, whatever storms we might face—we’ll navigate them together. His love is my compass, my true north.
In a world that never quite made sense, Sebastian Lockhart is the one thing that does.
Thirty
BAILEY
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER
“Fuel gauge optimal,” I murmur, eyes scanning the digital readout. “Oil pressure steady. Hydraulics check.”
I’m running through my preflight routine for the thousandth time, but everything seems different today. Maybe it’s the plush leather seats behind me, or the gold-plated fixtures in the lavatory. Or maybe it’s the way Sebastian asked me to fly him to Alaska on his fucking private plane.
“It’s an important business meeting,” he’d claimed, but his eyes sparkled with that barely contained excitement he gets when he’s plotting something.
“Altimeter calibrated. Nav systems online.” Each switch clicks under my fingers, but my mind keeps drifting. Alaska. Where everything began. Where we crashed and fought andfroze and somehow fell in love despite our most determined efforts not to.
The cabin door opens behind me, and Sebastian’s cologne reaches me before he does—expensive but subtle, just like most things about him. Well, the expensive part anyway. The man himself can be about as subtle as a hurricane when he wants to be.
“How’s my favorite pilot this morning?” He slides into the co-pilot seat with that fluid grace that once irritated me before I found it irresistible. He’s wearing hiking boots with his designer suit—definitely not standard CEO attire for a legitimate business meeting.
“Your favorite pilot is wondering why the CEO of Lockhart Industries needs to fly to Alaska in the dead of winter for a supposed business meeting when video calls were invented precisely to avoid such madness,” I reply without looking up from my checklist.
“Perhaps the CEO enjoys watching his pilot work,” Sebastian says, his fingers brushing mine as he reaches for his headset.
