Page 43 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Silence makes my skin crawl. Especially with him right there, all focused and capable with his perfect wood-chopping form. My brain itches for conversation.
“So what’s the Lockhart family Christmas like? Fancy trees? Diamond ornaments? Gold-plated stockings?”
He swings the axe again, muscles flexing beneath his coat. “Very... coordinated. Mother hires decorators in October. Everything matches the year’s theme.”
“Theme?”
“Last year was ‘Winter in Paris.’ Blue and silver everything. Ice sculptures. Champagne tower.” His voice empties of emotion. “The tree was twenty feet tall. This year is skiing in Aspen.”
“Sounds...”
“Artificial?” His laugh holds no humor. “Father works through most of it. Conference calls don’t stop for Christmas.” The axe hits harder this time. “Mother drinks champagne and critiques the catering.”
The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard. Mr. Perfect’s perfect Christmas isn’t so perfect after all.
His jaw clenches between strikes, and I recognize that tension—the kind that comes from expectations crushing you like an avalanche you never saw coming.
The way he describes his family Christmas reminds me of how corporate pilots talk about luxury flights. All sparkle on the surface, hollow underneath. No wonder he looks like he’s trying to murder that log.
I scoop another handful of snow, aiming for casual. “And your girlfriend? Does she join the fancy festivities?”
The axe freezes mid-swing. His shoulders lock.
“I mean, she must love all that fancy stuff,” I continue, words tumbling out faster. “The champagne towers and ice sculptures. Bet she fits right in with the Winter in Paris theme.”
The axe slams into the wood with enough force to make me jump. Splinters spray across pristine white.
“She would have,” he says. Just that. Nothing else.
Would have? My brain latches onto the past tense.
Oh.
My hands still over the snow jug. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The shadows beneath his eyes. The ring. His desperate need to leave Alaska.
Something happened. Something bad.
I seal my lips against the questions burning my tongue. Whatever crashed and burned in his perfect life isn’t my business. Even if part of me wants it to be.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sounds of the axe. I focus on filling the last container, giving him space with his demons.
“Your turn to ask something,” I say, changing the subject before the shadows in his eyes swallow him.
He pauses, axe suspended. “Do you have someone waiting at home?”
“My parents and my brother, Gabriel.” I smile, grateful for the change of topic. “Christmas at the Monroe house is controlled chaos. Mom bakes for two straight days—cookies, pies, these cinnamon rolls that should be illegal. They’re so good. Dad pretends to help but mostly sneaks dough when she’s not looking. He thinks she doesn’t know, but she always makes extra because of his ‘quality control.’”
I hop a few feet to get fresh snow for the last container.
“Gabriel flies in from Seattle and acts all sophisticated because he works for some tech company, but by Christmas morning, he’s in footie pajamas fighting me for the best spot under the tree. We still do stockings, even though I’m almost thirty. Mom knitted them when we were kids—mine has an airplane on it, because even at six I knew what I wanted to be.”
The memory warms me despite the cold. “We watch terrible Hallmark movies and drink hot chocolate with those mini marshmallows. Nothing fancy. Nothing coordinated. Just...home.”
“It sounds wonderful.” Sebastian’s voice softens, and the smile that crosses his face looks real for once. “You sound close.”
“We are. You should join us sometime. Mom would love having someone new to feed cookies to.”
My cheeks heat at the invitation that slipped out. It’s a ridiculous image—Sebastian Lockhart in our cramped living room, dodging Gabriel’s teasing while Mom force-feeds him homemade fudge. He’d stick out like a private jet at a cargo terminal. He’ll never come.
