Page 19 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“We...” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “We survived.”
“Of course we did.” Bailey unbuckles her harness, checking instruments. “I told you, lucky snow globe.” She pauses, glancing around the tilted cabin. “Which is...somewhere.”
The reality of our situation sinks in. We’re alive, yes, but we’re also stranded. In Alaska. In winter.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest. High-pitched and slightly hysterical. Bailey turns to me, eyebrows raised.
“You actually landed this thing,” I say, caught between disbelief and that edge of hysteria. “In a forest. At night. In a snowstorm. You saved us.”
She shrugs, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she runs them through her hair. “Yeah, well. Wasn’t about to let myperfect record of not dying get ruined by some stuck-up businessman who doesn’t appreciate cookies.”
I can’t stop laughing. The sound fills the tilted cabin, bouncing off the metal walls. My perfect suit is wrinkled beyond repair. There’s blood in my mouth from where I bit my cheek, and I’m certain my shoulder will be purple tomorrow, but I’m alive.
The relief hits like a wave, washing away the anger, the betrayal, even the embarrassment. My hands shake as I run them over my face, feeling the reality of warm skin and steady breathing.
“I can’t believe you did it.” The words come out between bursts of laughter. “You landed a failing plane in the middle of nowhere.”
Bailey continues checking instruments, but I catch her quick glance. “Are you having a mental breakdown? Because I only packed cookies for regular emergencies, not psychological ones.”
That makes me laugh harder. Here I am, Sebastian Lockhart, who spent four months planning the perfect proposal, who has color-coded his entire life, who never takes risks, sitting in a crashed plane with a pilot who packs emergency cookies and lucky snow globes.
The absurdity breaks something loose in my chest. The tight knot of control I’ve carried since childhood unravels with each laugh. I’m alive. I’m actually alive.
I pull my phone from my pocket, wincing at the movement. No signal. Not even one bar. I stand, raising it higher, turning in a slow circle.
“Come on,” I mutter, watching the signal indicator. Nothing. Just the mocking “No Service” message where my usual five barsshould be.
Bailey’s cursing draws my attention. She’s got her own phone out, making the same desperate dance for reception. The screen’s glow catches the worried lines around her eyes before she masks them with that irritating smirk.
“Guess we’re not ordering pizza.” She tucks her phone away, turning to the radio. Her fingers move over the dials with practiced ease. “Tower, this is flight B-177. Do you copy?”
Static crackles through the cabin. She adjusts something, tries again. “Tower B-177, requesting confirmation of coordinates.”
More static. She hits the side of the radio with her palm. The sound cuts out completely.
“That’s...not good.” Her voice loses its playful edge. She fiddles with more switches, but the radio remains silent. “Must’ve gotten knocked around during landing.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Sure, if you have a complete radio repair kit in that fancy suit.” She pokes at something inside the console. “Though considering you didn’t even want cookies, I’m guessing emergency aviation tools aren’t your thing either.”
Each crackle of static emphasizes how utterly alone we are out here.
“I need to be in Chicago by Christmas.” My voice comes out sharp. “There are important matters that require my attention.”
Bailey’s hands are still on the radio. She turns, and something in her expression makes me want to step back.
“Important matters?” She crosses her arms. “Let me guess. Some fancy party where everyone compares their offshore accounts? Or maybe a board meeting to decide which small business to crush next?”
“That’s not?—”
“Because clearly, yourimportant, rich personthings trump my plans to see my family for the first time in months.” Her voice rises. “God forbid the almighty Sebastian Lockhart misses his caviar Christmas while the rest of us peasants?—”
“I apologize.”
The words surprise us both. She blinks, mouth still open mid-rant.
“I...” I run a hand through my hair. “I never meant to imply your plans were less important than mine. That was inconsiderate.”
