Page 12 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I scan the nearly empty terminal through the windows, most flights already canceled as the storm approaches.
“I’ve filed my flight plan, completed all pre-flight checks, and I’m taking off before this storm blocks everyone in.”
“Bailey—”
“Nope, not listening.” As both my boss and the operations manager at Crosswind Logistics, Jake only uses that tone when he’s about to ruin my plans. “I’ve been dealing with rich people and their luggage all day. If you’re calling to mess up my plans, I swear?—”
“I know it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” Jake says, his voice placating but firm. “But?—”
“No.”
“Just listen.”
“Jake,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice but failing, “you do realize that if I miss this flight home, you owe me a year’s supply of sushi. Therapy wrapped in seaweed. That’s what you’ll owe me.”
“Bails. I need to ask you for?—”
“No.”
“I need you to take someone with you.”
“No. There’s a reason I fly cargo, not people. Cargo doesn’t talk back or ask for peanuts.”
“I really need you to do this.”
“He can take another flight. There are plenty of airlines that cater to humans.”
“The last flight out is fully booked, and the storm is coming. He’s ready to pay. Big. We need the money, Bails.”
I grind my teeth, feeling the familiar prick of irritation inmy scalp. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a swarm of bees, making my head throb.
“Who’s the cargo?” I mutter, already feeling my resolve crumbling like one of Mom’s overcooked cookies. Damn Jake and his ability to make me cave.
“Sebastian Lockhart,” Jake answers.
“Wait. The hotel empire guy?” I snort. “What’s wrong with his private jet? Did he scratch the gold plating?”
“No joke, Bails. He’s offering thirty grand.”
I blow out a breath. Thirty thousand reasons to say yes war with my burning desire to avoid another pompous suit who probably thinks Alaska is just a quaint little ice cube he can buy. But that kind of money would fix my leaking roof, help Jake with his kid’s fancy school, and—who am I kidding—finally complete my collection of cheesy tourist snow globes.
I glance at the weather radar on my phone screen, pretending to study it while weighing my options. The bright green and red Christmas decorations in the airport seem to mock me with their cheerfulness.
“Fine,” I grumble, knowing there’s no escaping this. “But he better not complain about legroom or in-flight snacks.”
“Thanks, Bails. You’re a saint.”
“A saint who’s gonna need saintly levels of patience,” I mutter. “Where is he waiting?”
“Business lounge. The one with the fancy chairs and free booze.”
Of course. Where else would Hotel Royalty hang out? Not with us plebeians by the vending machines that eat your dollars and spit out nothing but disappointment and broken dreams.
I trudge toward the lounge, my boots squeaking on the polished floor like I’m announcing my arrival to the elite class. A woman in pearls actually clutches her designer bag closer as Iwalk by.Yeah, Lady, I’m totally going to steal your overpriced leather sack.
I glance down at my outfit. Faded jacket, cargo pants, and boots that have seen more miles than most cars. Okay. I do look like I’m about to steal something, not pick up a billionaire passenger.
My fingers toy with the zipper on my jacket. Up, down, up. Why am I even concerned about my appearance? He’s just a passenger. A pricey passenger, but still just a passenger.
