Page 48 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“You threw your snow globe.” The significance of her sacrifice knocks the air from my lungs. Her precious Vegas treasure, abandoned without hesitation. For me.
She freezes mid-sentence, hands stilling against my chest, over the thundering betrayal of my heart. “Of course I did! You were about to die and—” Her breath catches, unable to finishthe thought.
“You threw Vegas to save me.” My voice betrays me, dropping to a whisper rough with something I can’t name.
Her palm presses harder against my chest, seeking reassurance in each beat. Snow crystals cling to her eyelashes, melting with each rapid blink. Her pupils have consumed the green of her irises, leaving only thin emerald rings that pull at something primal inside me. Wind tangles her hair into a chaotic halo, her cheeks flushed pink from cold and survival and something else.
My focus narrows to the ridge of her top lip, slightly chapped from cold and worry. The rapid pulse at her throat jumps beneath delicate skin. The constellation of freckles across her nose. So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her.
“Is that what you’re focusing on right now?” Her voice carries that edge—challenging, breathless, alive—but underneath lurks vulnerability I’ve never heard before.
A few days ago, I discovered betrayal in a hotel room. A few days ago, my perfectly planned future shattered. I should be numb. Guarded. Incapable of wanting anyone.
Yet here, surrounded by wolf tracks and broken glass, my heart hammers against my ribs with an intensity I’ve never experienced. Not with Rebecca. Not with anyone.
Her fingers curl into my coat, no longer checking for injuries—holding on, pulling slightly, drawing us closer. The space between us charges with something raw and unplanned. Something real.
I want Bailey Monroe.
I want her in a way I’ve never wanted anything. Not success, not perfection, not approval. This isn’t a well-reasoned desire. It’s a bone-deep need, raw and terrifying.
I want her rambling thoughts that spiral into absurd tangents. Her inappropriate jokes that slice through tension like the sharpest blade. Her fearlessness in facing wolves andfragility when she thinks no one’s watching. The unapologetic realness of her. Messy, chaotic, honest in a world where I’ve been drowning in pretense.
She wears her soul on the outside. Everything—fear, joy, anger—blazes across her face with absolute transparency. I’ve spent a lifetime constructing walls, perfecting masks, calculating every word and gesture. She demolishes pretense without even trying, speaking truths others don’t dare think, seeing parts of me I’ve hidden from myself.
No one has ever looked at me the way Bailey does, seeing past Sebastian Lockhart, CEO, past the tailored suits and practiced smiles to the man beneath. The man I forgot existed until she crashed into my life.
Her fingers move against my chest, tracing my heartbeat. Something cracks open inside me. Something vital that’s been sealed away for so long I’ve forgotten it was there. The warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with her.
Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. A flush spreads across her cheeks. The pulse at her throat quickens, matching the ragged rhythm of my own.
No. I’m not thinking about snow globes or wolves or ex-girlfriends.
I’m thinking that I’ve never wanted anything in my life the way I want to kiss Bailey Monroe right now.
Fifteen
BAILEY
The thing about wolves’ howls is that they sound a lot like loneliness. Or maybe that’s just me, projecting again. Sebastian says I do that—find meaning in things that are just things. But sitting here in the dark, listening to that mournful sound, I can’t help but think the wolves get it.
I nudge another log into the fireplace with my good foot, careful not to disturb the cast-iron kettle balanced on the grate. The water inside bubbles, steam rising in ghostly tendrils. Without electricity, this ancient fireplace is our only source of heat and light—and the only way to make tea that doesn’t taste like snow.
Another howl pierces the night. I flinch. Hot tea splashes over my fingers, burning my skin. The liquid smells sharp and piney, like Christmas gone feral.
“They can’t get in the cabin.” Sebastian’s voice is low, steady.
He shifts closer on the rough wooden bench, his thigh now pressing against mine. The contact sends little sparks of awareness through my body, which seems inappropriate given our near-death experience earlier.
I should move away. Or make a joke. Or ramble about wolf pack dynamics, which I know a lot about, thanks to a middle school hyper-fixation phase. Instead, I sit frozen, afraid any movement might break whatever this is.
The silence stretches. My fingers tap against the tin cup, creating tiny ripples in the tea. “How’s the arm?”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing. Barely broke skin.”
The bandage peeks out from his torn shirt, a small red spot blooming through white gauze where the wolf’s teeth grazed him.
My stomach twists. He wouldn’t let me look at it earlier, just wrapped it himself while I collected scattered firewood, all precise movements and clipped responses, back to Mr. Perfect mode.
