Page 15 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Good thing I never forget how to talk. Ever. Even when I should.
“The weather report showed clear skies until midnight.” His crisp voice breaks our twenty-minute silence. “Yet I see storm clouds ahead.”
“Weather changes.” I adjust our heading by two degrees, compensating for crosswinds. “Especially in Alaska.”
“Is that...safe?” The way he says “safe” makes it sound like he’s asking if I plan to land on an active volcano.
“Safer than staying in that airport with Rebecca blowing up your phone.” I shouldn’t have said that. Filter, Bailey. Filter.
His posture stiffens. “You know nothing about my personal affairs.”
“I know you’re running from something. Or someone.” My mouth keeps going while my brain screams to stop. “People don’t pay thirty grand for cargo flights unless they’re desperate.”
“I’m not—” He stops himself, jaw working. “My reasons for travel are none of your concern.”
I catch him watching me pre-flight check the instruments. His lips press into a thin line every time I touch something. Like I might break his precious air with my common hands.
“I assure you, I’m qualified to fly this thing,” I say. “They don’t just hand out licenses in cereal boxes.”
“I didn’t say anything.” His voice stays measured, controlled. It makes me want to mess up his perfect hair just to see what happens.
Which is not a thought I should have about someone this irritating. Even if his stupid designer stubble catches the light just right when he turns to stare out the window. Even if his hands are... No. Nope. Not going there.
The radar screen flashes angry red and yellow. The storm system’s moving faster than predicted, because, of course, it is. Nothing like a Christmas Eve blizzard to bring out that holiday spirit.
“We need to get moving.” I start the pre-flight sequence. “Unless you’d rather spend Christmas in the world’s most depressing airport hotel.”
I pull my lucky Las Vegas snow globe from my flight bag, setting it on the dashboard. The tiny plastic casino dancers shake in their glittery storm.
“Is that a snow globe?” His voice drips with the kind of judgment usually reserved for people who put ketchup on filet mignon.
“No, it’s a sophisticated navigation device. Latest technology.” I tap it twice. “When the dancers face north, we’re good to go.”
His reflection in the cockpit window shows that perfect jaw clenching again. “You cannot be serious.”
I grab my bag of chocolate chip cookies—the good kind, with the chunks bigger than my thumbnail—and crinkle the wrapper. “I’m never serious. It ruins my complexion.”
“This is highly irregular.” He shifts in his seat, probablyworried my unprofessionalism might be contagious. “I must insist?—”
“You must insist nothing.” My fingers tap against the controls again, a rhythm that helps keep my thoughts straight when people use words like “must” and “irregular.”
“My plane, my rules. Snow globe stays.”
“So your meteorological expertise consists of...a tourist trinket.” The ice in his voice could freeze the sun. “I’m beginning to question the wisdom of this arrangement.”
“Feel free to get out and walk to LA.” I gesture to the emergency exit. “I’d hate to inconvenience you with my lack of sophistication.”
“I’m merely suggesting that perhaps a more professional approach?—”
“And I’m merely suggesting you stop backseat flying before I send you back to join the cargo.”
The plane vibrates as we climb through the clouds, metal groaning against the wind. Altitude, heading, engine readings. All good. The snow globe dancers wobble in their plastic dome.
Sebastian white-knuckles the armrests every time we hit a patch of turbulence. His perfect posture cracks, shoulders hunching forward with each bump. The clouds outside glow orange from the setting sun, making his face look almost human.
My leg bounces against the seat. The silence feels like static electricity building up under my skin. I hate silence. It makes my brain too loud.
“So...rough night?”
