Page 22 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I jerk away from his touch, but that only makes it worse because now I’m breathing deeper and catching more of that stupidly expensive scent.
It’s not fair that someone this annoying should smell like...like...whatever that is. Cedar maybe? Something woodsy and warm that makes my brain fuzzy in ways I don’t want to examine right now.
“I can manage,” I snap. But my sensory system is already in overdrive from the crash. Adding his proximity and that scentthat’s making my stomach do weird flips… Nope. Not happening. “I do this all the time.”
“Your ankle is clearly injured.”
“And your attitude is clearly annoying, yet here we are.”
I take a deep breath and push off, aiming to land on my good leg. Physics has other ideas. The impact jolts through my injured ankle, and the world goes white at the edges. I bite down hard on my lip, but at least I don’t scream.
The snow soaks through my pants as I struggle to stay upright. Each heartbeat sends fresh waves of pain shooting up my leg. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t throw up on Mr. Perfect’s expensive shoes.
Mr. Perfect lands next to me with infuriating grace, like some kind of runway model doing a snow photoshoot. His perfect face scrunches with what looks like actual concern. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” My voice comes out tight, like I’m trying to strangle the pain with my vocal cords. The snow seeps further into my pants, numbing everything. Small mercies.
He reaches toward me, all proper gentleman-like. “I can help?—”
“Don’t need your help.” I wave him off, probably looking like a drunk penguin trying to dance. “Just stay here.”
The snow crunches under my boots as I limp toward the engine, each step sending fresh jolts of pain up my leg. My teeth chatter from more than just the cold.
The adrenaline crash is hitting hard, making my hands shake as I shine the flashlight over the damage.
“Oh, that’s not good.” The engine housing is crumpled like a crushed soda can, with bits of metal scattered across the pristine snow, and there’s a concerning dark puddle spreading underneath.
The wind whips my hair into my face as I wade through knee-deep snow, circling the plane. My mental checklist grows longer with each discovery. Cracked stabilizer. Missing...something important-looking.
The cold bites through my gloves as I touch each damaged section, mapping out our situation.
Mr. Perfect stands where I left him, radiating disapproval like a space heater of judgment. Just keeps staring at me with those stormy blue eyes like I’m personally responsible for ruining his evening. Which, okay, technically I am, but still.
At least nothing’s on fire. Yet. And hey, all the important bits are mostly attached. Sort of. I’ve seen worse. Well, in training videos. And that one time in Texas with the geese, but we don’t talk about that.
The wind picks up, howling through the trees and sending snow swirling around us in mini tornadoes. Great. Because this situation really needed more drama.
I squint at the darkening sky, where thick clouds roll in like waves of smoke. The temperature’s dropping faster now. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my breath crystallizes.
“So...good news and bad news.” I limp back to where Mr. Perfect stands, still looking like an orange traffic cone had a baby with a GQ model. “Good news is the plane didn’t explode. Bad news is it’s not going anywhere. That engine’s completely shot, and there’s damage to the—” I catch his glazed expression. “Never mind the technical stuff. Point is, we’re grounded.”
He blinks, like he’s processing in dial-up. “Surely they’ll send help.”
“In case you missed the weather memo, nobody’s flying in this mess. Not even rescue choppers. And with the engines out, this plane’s going to turn into a freezer real quick.” Igesture toward the crumpled metal. “No power means no heat.”
I shift my weight off my throbbing ankle, leaning against the plane’s cold metal. The wind whips snow into my face, making my eyes water.
“Okay, Mr. Perfect, here’s the situation.” My hands move as I talk. “We’ve got about six hours of daylight left. Emergency services know our location, but this storm’s making search and rescue impossible until it clears. We have supplies for three days, assuming you’re willing to eat commoner food.”
His perfect jawline tightens. Snow catches in his dark hair, making him look almost human. Almost.
“The good news is?—”
“There’s good news?” His voice drips with that fancy-person sarcasm I hate.
“We’re alive.” I tap the plane’s hull. “The bad news is we’re stuck together until help arrives.”
He stares at me like I’ve just announced we’re having rats for dinner. The orange emergency jacket makes him look like a very expensive traffic cone having an existential crisis. A snowflake lands on his nose, and he doesn’t even brush it away, just keeps staring.
