Page 108 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“If I remove this blindfold and see a surprise birthday party, I’m getting back on the plane,” I warn as Sebastian helps me out.
“It’s not your birthday for another three months,” he reminds me, his hands steady on my shoulders. “Careful, the snow’s deep here.”
I hear the car drive away, leaving us in silence so complete it makes my ears ring. The cold bites at my cheeks, and snow crunches beneath my boots as Sebastian guides me forward.
“Why is the car leaving?”
“Almost there,” he murmurs, ignoring my question.
The wind whispers through what must be trees. A familiar sound, like something from a dream—or a memory.
“Okay,” Sebastian says, his voice tight. “You can look now.”
Thirty-One
BAILEY
He unties the blindfold, and I blink against the sudden brightness. Snow stretches in every direction, trees rising dark against the white.
As my vision adjusts to the dazzling light, something catches my attention through the trees—a dark shape that doesn’t belong. My mind struggles to comprehend what I’m seeing, refusing to believe what my eyes insist is real.
“Is that...?” The words die in my throat as I take an uncertain step forward.
The cabin.
Our cabin.
But not the broken-down, leaky refuge we left behind. This structure stands proud against the winter backdrop, smoke curling from a new stone chimney, windows gleaming in the sunlight like welcoming eyes. Someone—Sebastian—has transformed it.
“You didn’t,” I whisper, but my feet are already moving, carrying me forward before my thoughts can catch up.
My boots crash through knee-deep snow as I break into an awkward run, lungs burning with cold air, not caring how ridiculous I must look flailing through the drifts.
The cabin grows more distinct with each desperate step—new logs replacing rotted ones, a proper door instead of the splintered barrier we’d improvised, a small porch with a hand-carved bench waiting in silent invitation.
“Bailey, wait!” Sebastian calls behind me, but I don’t slow down.
“You restored it!” I shout over my shoulder, laughing as I nearly disappear into a snowbank. “You rebuilt our disaster cabin!”
My fingers have gone numb, my cheeks burn from the cold, and snow infiltrates my boots with each plunging step, but none of it matters. All that matters is reaching that cabin.
I fling the door open, momentum carrying me across the threshold. Warm air envelops me, carrying the intoxicating scent of pine and wood smoke. My breath catches in my chest.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
It’s our cabin, but transformed. The layout remains identical, every detail preserved but elevated. The old wood stove still occupies its corner, now refurbished with flames dancing behind clean glass.
The rickety table where we once ate ancient beans gleams with careful polish, set with handcrafted mugs awaiting coffee.
“You remembered everything,” I murmur, fingers tracing the smooth countertop that once bristled with splinters eager to attack unwary hands.
My gaze falls on the spot where we’d placed our patheticChristmas tree—that sad, crooked branch decorated with found pinecones and twigs. In its place stands a perfect small pine, adorned with miniature snow globes and tiny wooden ornaments shaped like planes soaring through clouds. And pinecones.
The same type we gathered that night, placed among the branches, a perfect homage to our first makeshift Christmas together.
“Sebastian...” His name catches like a physical thing in my throat.
But it’s what sits above the fireplace that breaks me. A shelf, hand-crafted, displaying a collection of snow globes. Not just any snow globes—mysnow globes.
