Page 42 of Mistletoe and Mayday
That makes two of us. Because as I watch her face, Iconfront an uncomfortable realization—I didn’t do this to apologize. I did it to see her smile.
My fingers brush the ring box. Five generations of Lockhart diamonds. Five generations of strategic marriages. A century of perfect proposals.
All meaningless compared to the way Bailey looks at me now—not as a Lockhart, not as a CEO, just as a man who brought her Christmas.
Thirteen
BAILEY
The worst part about waking up next to an attractive man who saved your life? Morning breath. And bed head. And the fact that my ankle looks like someone stuffed a grapefruit under my skin. But mostly the morning breath thing, because Sebastian’s face is inches from mine as he examines my ankle.
His fingers trace the purple-blue contours, gentle despite their strength. Every touch sends electric currents racing up my leg that have nothing to do with pain.
Get it together, Bailey. He’s just playing doctor because he’s stuck with you.
“The swelling’s gone down a little,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep. “Does it feel better?”
“Yes.” I focus on a cobweb in the corner instead of how his thumbs make small circles on my skin. “Good enough to help with chores.”
He looks up, his hands pausing. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on!” I gesture toward the window where snow builds. “That storm isn’t letting up, and we’re running low on everything. Water, firewood, those ancient beans that might kill us anyway...”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can hop.” I demonstrate by scooting to the bed’s edge, ignoring the jagged pain. “See? Half-kangaroo, half-pilot.”
“Bailey.” He catches my arm as I wobble forward. “Stop.”
“Make me.” Fuck. Wrong thing to say.
His fingers freeze on my skin, then tighten like he’s fighting against his own grip. The rough pad of his thumb finds my wrist, settling over my pulse, which immediately betrays me by racing wildly beneath his touch.
His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there with an intensity that makes my thighs clench. The blue of his irises darkens as his pupils expand, leaving just a thin ring of color.
Kiss me, my brain offers helpfully. Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outward until my skin feels too tight. I want to slap myself. What am I doing? He has someone waiting for him. Someone he loves enough to buy that ring for. Someone perfect and polished who fits into his world.
Gold flecks in his blue eyes catch the morning light as he stares at my mouth. For one insane moment, I imagine him closing that distance, pressing his lips to mine, sliding his hands into my hair, pinning me against the wall, his knee sliding between my thighs, his teeth grazing my neck as I arch against him, clothes falling away until?—
I squeeze my eyes shut.
The wind howls, rattling the windows. We need supplies. He needs help. And I need a distraction from whatever this is.
“I’m helping,” I say. “Unless you want to drink snow and freeze when the firewood runs out.”
I open the door, and cold air slaps my face. I breathe, filling my lungs with crisp winter.
Sebastian scans our surroundings before helping me outside, his arm steady around my waist. Snow crunches beneath us—his feet and my singular functional one. A few yards from the cabin, he stops and retrieves a fallen branch, testing its strength.
“Here.” He presses it into my hands. “This should work as a crutch.”
It’s not perfect, but it beats hopping. I lean my weight against it while he grabs the axe from beside the door. Gathering our empty water jugs, I tuck them under my free arm and hop-shuffle toward a pristine patch of snow away from the cabin, careful to avoid anything yellow.
“What are you doing?” Sebastian calls over the rhythmic thud of his chopping.
“Getting water.” I plant my makeshift crutch and lower the first container into untouched powder. “Since someone won’t let me do any actual work.”
The snow compacts as I scoop it into the jug. We’ll melt it later on the stove, part of our glamorous survival routine.
