Page 14 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“I’ll manage.”
His phone rings again. This time, the name “Mother” flashes on his screen. The look on his face is something between dread and resignation.
“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, immediately regretting it. Filter, Bailey. Filter.
“You have no idea.” He looks up, his expression unreadable. “Shall we go? I’d rather be in the air than continue this stimulating conversation.”
“Sure thing. Just don’t blame me when you realize how uncomfortable those fancy shoes and suit are in a cargo plane?—”
“I assure you, I can handle discomfort better than you might expect.”
“Is that right? Because you strike me as someone who’s never experienced anything uncomfortable without having someone fix it immediately.”
“I climb mountains, actually.” His voice has that edge again, but there’s something different about it now. Less snobby, more... Defensive?
“Climbing the corporate ladder doesn’t count.”
For a half-second, I swear something like amusement flickers in his eyes before it’s swallowed by that stormy blue again.
“I have hiking boots in my luggage. Would that satisfy your concern for my comfort?”
“Whatever. It’s your feet that’ll be cramping, not mine.”
We head toward the exit, maintaining a careful distance between us like opposing magnets. The Christmas music follows us, now blaring “Let It Snow” while actual snow builds up outside, threatening to trap us both here if we don’t hurry.
His phone buzzes again. Rebecca, again. He ignores it. Again.
“Whoever she is,” I say, staring straight ahead, “she’s persistent.”
“She’s nothing.” His voice has a finality to it that raises the hairs on my neck.
“Wow, that wasn’t ominous at all. Should I be worriedyou’re running from the law or something? Because I draw the line at harboring fugitives, even for thirty grand.”
“Let’s just say I’ve learned that loyalty is a commodity some people can’t afford.”
The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard.
Just what I need. A rich guy running away from relationship drama on Christmas Eve.
Let me guess: he cheated on some poor woman, got caught, and now he’s fleeing the scene like the privileged coward he clearly is. Classic billionaire behavior.
“We should go,” I say. “The storm won’t wait for us.”
Five
BAILEY
His blood-drained face tells me everything I need to know. Billionaire Sebastian Lockhart has never flown in anything other than a luxury private jet.
Good. Let him squirm in my stripped-down cargo plane while we climb through turbulence that rattles the rivets. The way he flinches at each move I make almost makes the thirty grand worth it.
The thing about small cargo planes is there’s nowhere to hide. No plush leather seats or champagne service. No polished mahogany tables. Just two cramped seats in a cockpit designed for function, not comfort, and a cargo hold that smells faintly of fish from yesterday’s delivery.
Mr. Perfect keeps checking his Rolex every ninety seconds, like it might speed up time. His jaw could cut glass—which, annoyingly, matches the rest of his sharp features. The whole package screams, “I summer in the Hamptons and winter in Aspen and judge people who can’t tell cabernet from merlot.”
His eyes have this crazy shade of blue, like storm clouds right before lightning strikes. Which is fitting, since he looks ready to electrocute me every time I tap my fingers on the controls. Not that I’m looking. I’m definitely not looking. I’m a professional pilot.
But seriously, who has eyes that color? It’s unfair. Like the universe went, “Here’s your perfect bone structure and expensive everything, and oh yeah, here are some eyes that’ll make people forget how to talk.”
