Page 89 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“Mr. Lockhart’s schedule is fully booked.” Her gaze returns to her computer—conversation terminated.
My hands tremble as I drop my bag. Should’ve known this wouldn’t be simple. Nothing with Sebastian ever is.
“Please.” My voice cracks like thin ice. “It’s important. Just tell him Bailey Monroe is here.”
“I’m sorry, but even if I wanted to help you, Mr. Lockhart is out for lunch.” Her smile remains frozen.
“Out for lunch.” The words hang in the air. Of course he is. What possessed me to show up unannounced?
For a heartbeat, I contemplate camping in the lobby until his return. But the security guard’s stare broadcasts “don’t try it” in every language.
“Right. Thanks anyway.” I hoist my bag back up, its weight matching the brick in my chest.
The revolving door expels me onto the sidewalk. Chicago’s winter wind slaps my cheeks—a bracing reality check.
This was idiotic. What fantasy was I living in? That he’d be pacing his office, waiting for me to change my mind?
People rush past in both directions, each with a purpose and destination. Everyone except me, rooted to the concrete like an urban sculpture.
I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over his name. Two weeks ago, I told him to go back to his perfect world. Now here I stand, speechless.
Well, there’s no choice now. I’ll need to call him, say I’m here in Chicago. Put my heart on the chopping block one more time.
My finger hovers over the call button. Wait?—
Across the street, a flash of movement catches my eye. A sleek restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows. Businesspeople in dark suits mingling over white tablecloths.
And there, in the corner—that tilt of the head, that straight-backed posture, that way of leaning forward when listening. The phone nearly slips from my grip.
Sebastian.
Relief washes through me. Maybe this disaster has a second act. I stuff my phone away, a smile cracking.
I zigzag between cars, collecting a symphony of honks as I dart across.
My hand reaches for the restaurant door when movement inside freezes me mid-step.
A blonde woman approaches his table, gliding with ballerina poise. Her cream-colored dress whispers money, delicate gold jewelry winking in the light.
Rebecca.
The restaurant window frames them like a portrait—Sebastianand Rebecca. He’s smiling. She’s leaning in. My heart flatlines.
My fingers press against the glass as she slides into the seat across from him. She laughs at something he says, her manicured hand reaching across to touch his arm.
They fit together. Polished. Perfect. They make sense in a way Sebastian and I never did.
My lungs forget their purpose. My limbs lock. Can’t tear my eyes away from the scene playing out before me like some cruel joke.
“Can I help you?”
I whirl around to find a server frowning from the restaurant doorway.
“No,” my voice splinters. “No one can.”
Inside, Sebastian laughs at something Rebecca says, his head tilting in that way reserved for genuine amusement.
My fingers locate the Chicago snow globe in my bag, suddenly heavy as a bowling ball. The miniature skyline, the suspended flakes, the impossible little world sealed away from reality’s mess.
