Page 27 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“Stop squirming,” I say through gritted teeth, unsure if they’re clenched from cold or frustration.
After an eternity of awkward adjustments, we achieve something approaching comfort. She presses against my chest, her back fitting against me in ways I refuse to contemplate. Our shivering subsides as shared body heat fills the sleeping bag. I grow aware of every point where we touch. She’s soft despite her thorny personality, and that vanilla scent makes maintaining detachment nearly impossible.
Her muscles remain rigid against mine, coiled tight like she might bolt despite her injury.
“This is weird,” she mumbles, words muffled by the sleeping bag. Yet despite her complaint, she presses closer, seeking warmth. The movement sends another wave of vanilla my way. I force my attention to the howling wind outside instead of how perfectly she fits against me.
“Would you prefer hypothermia?” I keep my voice neutral, though it’s harder than usual with her this close.
“Ask me tomorrow.” Her teeth stop chattering, though occasional tremors still pulse through her body.
I close my eyes against the exhaustion.
Rebecca materializes. Sheets twisted around her naked body, lipstick smudged across her mouth, eyes widening in shock when she sees me in the doorway. Her lover’s cologne hanging in the air. The rehearsed “Sebastian, I can explain,” falling from her lips. My stomach churns. I snap my eyes open, preferring the dark cave to the theater of betrayal playing behind my eyelids.
“So...” Bailey’s voice breaks through my darkening thoughts. “What does a fancy CEO actually do all day?”
“Run meetings. Make decisions.” I keep my answers clipped. Professional. Safe.
“That’s it? Just meetings and decisions? No secret underground lair? No villain monologues?”
“No.”
“You suck at this conversation thing, don’t you?”
I shift, careful to avoid her injured leg. “I prefer efficient communication.”
“Efficient is boring. Want to hear about my snow globes instead?”
Before I can decline, she launches into her story, still clutching the Vegas globe.
“I started in Seattle. First solo flight. Airport gift shop had this tacky thing with a tiny Space Needle. The glitter looked like dandruff, not snow, but I bought it anyway. Then Chicago. Oh man, the Chicago one is perfect. When you shake it, it makes this weird clicking sound, like someone dropped a penny inside...”
Her voice fills our small shelter, rising and falling with each description. Miami has sand instead of glitter. Portland broke in her suitcase, but she kept the base. Tokyo plays a tinny version of some pop song she can’t pronounce.
“And then in Denver?—”
“Do you ever stop?”
“Talking? Not really. I know it makes people uncomfortable. Which, funny enough, makes me talk more. It’s a nervous thing. Like now. I’m nervous. So I’m talking. A lot. Obviously.”
Her nervous admission catches me off guard. The constant stream of words makes sense now—it’s her shield, just as my carefully chosen words are mine.
“Right now,” she continues, “I’m thinking about how this is super awkward for you because you’re all...” She waves her hand vaguely, rustling our silver cocoon. “You know.Proper. And I’m just word-vomiting about snow globes while we’re spooning in a cave.”
A laugh escapes before I can contain it. When was the last time someone spoke to me with such raw honesty? No agenda, no social calculations, just unfiltered thoughts tumbling into darkness.
In my world, every conversation is combat. Board meetings are verbal warfare, each word a strategic weapon. Even casual drinks with colleagues feel like high-stakes negotiations, everyone hunting for weaknesses to exploit. Everyone wants something. A piece of me.
Yet here she is, filling our frozen shelter with stories about airport gift shops and broken snow globes, unconcerned with social hierarchy or protocol. The contrast fascinates me.
“Now you’re doing that thing again,” she interrupts my thoughts.
“What thing?”
“That analyzing thing. I can hear your brain categorizing me into some weird rich-person spreadsheet.”
“I’m not,” I mutter, pressing fingers against my temple. Her voice fills our cramped shelter, painting pictures of Salt Lake City’s terminal shops with the enthusiasm most people reserve for billion-dollar acquisitions.
