Page 72 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Dad nods. “Don’t let us keep you. And thanks again for everything you did for our girl.”
Gabriel stands slightly apart, arms crossed, eyes tracking between Sebastian and me with uncomfortable perception. His posture radiates protective older brother energy, the same stance he's had since we were kids, and he appointed himself my personal guardian.
Sebastian hesitates, broken cookie still in his hand. “Bailey, I?—”
“Better hurry,” I cut him off, the words like glass in my throat. “Wouldn’t want to keep your fiancée waiting.”
His jaw tightens at “fiancée”—the muscle jumping once, twice. “Right. Well...” He turns to my parents. “It was lovely meeting you all.”
Rebecca makes an impatient sound, checking her watch—probably some Swiss timepiece that costs more than my salary. Sebastian tugs at his already perfect tie and turns to follow her.
Just like that, he’s gone. Walking away with the woman who shattered his heart, back to his perfect life where people like me—people who collect tacky snow globes and ramble about penguin mating habits—don’t belong.
The door to the emergency room whispers shut behind them.
My chest feels hollowed out, like someone scooped everything vital away with a melon baller and left just enough behind to keep me technically alive.
“He seems nice,” Dad says, oblivious to the emotional massacre he just witnessed.
Mom watches me with that look. The one she had when I was seven and came home crying because the other kids said my dinosaur facts were weird. She perches on the edge of my bed, her hand finding mine.
“Bailey,” she whispers, my name carrying a universe of questions.
I focus on her flashing earrings. Blink. Blink. Blink. Easier than meeting her eyes.
“He’s just the guy I was flying,” I manage, my voice sandpaper-rough. “Nothing special.”
Mom says nothing, just squeezes my hand. The knowledge in her eyes cuts deeper than if she’d called me out on the lie.
“You’re good to go, Miss Monroe.” A nurse wheels in a hospital-issued wheelchair, its gray vinyl cracked with age. “The doctor signed your discharge papers.”
Dad gathers my duffel, which Mom packed with fresh clothes and enough supplies for a three-month Arctic expedition. “Your apartment’s ready. We stocked the fridge and cleaned.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I try for grateful instead of suffocated.
“Of course we did.” Mom fusses with my hoodie collar. “That’s what parents are for.”
I slide from bed to wheelchair, swallowing a hiss as my leg protests. The nurse helps arrange my cast so it juts out like a white battering ram.
“Stylish ride.” I pat the armrests. “Think they’d let me add flame decals?”
Mom rolls her eyes, but Dad chuckles. “That’s my girl.”
The nurse pushes me toward the elevator, my parents trailing behind with my meager belongings. I clutch my backpack in my lap—the only thing that survived the crash besides me and a handful of regrets.
The elevator doors slide open to the hospital lobby, and sound slams into me like turbulence.
Flashing cameras. Shouting voices. A crush of reporters packed together like psychological sardines.
“Mr. Lockhart! How did it feel to crash in the wilderness?”
“Sebastian! Over here!”
“Is it true you fought off wolves with your bare hands?”
“Rebecca! Were you worried when you heard the news?”
There he is, at the eye of the media hurricane. Sebastian Lockhart, billionaire and wilderness survivor. Rebecca clings to his arm like a designer barnacle, diamonds winking under the camera flashes.
