Page 28 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“Then—this is the best part—they had this special edition where the snow actually looks like salt! Get it? Salt Lake City? Salt?” She shakes Vegas for emphasis, sending ripples through our shared cocoon. “When you shake it, the glitter goes whoosh—no, more like fwoosh. Or maybe it’s shhhhhh?”
I grunt and close my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips.
“They had this entire display with different colored bases, but I chose classic bronze because, hello, authenticity? Though technically the real salt flats probably don’t gofwoosh—” She makes the sound again, and I wonder what my Board would make of someone who punctuates business decisions with sound effects.
The strangest part is her genuine enthusiasm. No agenda, no calculated image. Just pure, unfiltered excitement about something as ridiculous as souvenir snow globes. It’s...refreshing. Maddening, but refreshing.
Her voice trails off mid-critique of LAX’s “tragically inferior” snow globe selection, replaced by soft, even breaths. Without the constant barrage of words, the silence presses against my ears.
She shifts in sleep, turning over, burrowing deeper against me, her head finding the hollow beneath my chin like it belongs there.
My heart kicks against my ribs. I should move. Create distance. But her warmth seeps into my frozen bones, and I tighten my arm around her instead.
Who am I anymore? Twenty-four hours ago, I was Sebastian Lockhart. CEO, heir, man with the perfect life, and perfect fiancée-to-be. Now I’m a stranger wearing my skin, huddled in a cave with a woman who challenges everything I thought I knew about myself.
We might die here. The thought slices through me with terrifying clarity. No rescue coming. Just wind and darkness and temperatures dropping by the minute. No one would find our bodies until the spring thaw.
Bailey’s hand uncurls in sleep, her fingers splaying across my chest. Right over my heart, as if even unconscious, she’s trying to read me. Her face softens in sleep, vulnerability replacing the sharp edges she wields like weapons when awake.
Moonlight catches on her long lashes, casting feathered shadows across her cheeks. A constellation of freckles dusts thebridge of her nose. Without her rapid-fire commentary and challenging stares, I can see the delicate curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, slightly parted in sleep.
She’s beautiful. Not in Rebecca’s calculated, manufactured way. Bailey is beautiful like wilderness itself—raw, untamed, dangerous to those who don’t respect her power.
The realization twists something in my chest.
“Your suit’s getting wrinkled,” she mumbles, her breath warm against my throat. Her sleepy concern for my clothing of all things—while we’re facing death in an Alaskan wilderness—breaks something inside me. A laugh that feels dangerously close to a sob catches in my throat.
“If anyone hears about the cuddling,” she murmurs, “I’ll deny everything and hide your fancy shoes.”
Even now, she’s impossible. Infuriating. Unlike anyone I’ve ever known.
The storm howls its fury outside, reminding me that nature doesn’t care about Lockhart Industries or perfect proposals or my ordered life. Out here, I’m nothing. No one. Just a man trying not to die with a woman who’s somehow anchoring me when everything else has been ripped away.
She shifts again, murmuring something against my chest. One hand clutches her snow globe while the other fists in my shirt, holding on like I might disappear. Her leg—the injured one—twitches in sleep. Without thinking, I run my hand down her spine, surprised when she instantly settles under my touch.
I should create distance. Protect what’s left of my shattered pride.
Instead, I adjust the silver blanket to cover her shoulder, ensuring not a single draft touches her. I tuck her closer, mychin resting atop her head, her heartbeat a steady counterpoint to the wild pounding of my own.
What the hell is wrong with me?
If she makes those ridiculous sound effects again, I’m taking my chances with hypothermia.
The Board would understand.
Probably.
Nine
BAILEY
The world comes into focus, like someone’s adjusting a blurry lens. My head’s resting on something warm and firm. Something breathing.
And something else—unmistakably firm—presses against my hip.
Oh God.
My brain catches up with my body’s position. I’m draped across Sebastian Lockhart. One of his arms curls around my back, the other rests on my thigh. And that’s definitely morning wood making itself known against my leg.
