Page 13 of Mistletoe and Mayday
The last small cluster of businesspeople gathers around their laptops, scheming for global takeover or whatever it is they do while waiting for their flight.
I survey the room, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. Making eye contact is draining on a good day, and today is far from good.
Where on earth is this guy?
“So, who here is Mr. Lockhart?”
A man in a tailored suit rises from a chair in the corner, his back to me at first. As he turns, my stomach performs an Olympic-level flip.
Holy shit. It’s him. The uptight language police from the luggage carousel.
Our eyes lock, and for a split second, I see the same shock register on his face before it hardens into something closer to resignation. His perfect posture stiffens even further, if that’s possible, like someone just replaced his spine with a steel rod.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. The universe isn’t just laughing at me now, it’s doubled over, clutching its cosmic sides, tears streaming down its face. Because of course Mr. Perfect from the luggage carousel is Sebastian freaking Lockhart.
He seems different, though. Like all thatsnippy energy from earlier leaked right out of him. Gone is the guy who lectured me about handling protocols. In his place stands someone who looks like he just lost a fight with life itself.
Mom’s voice echoes in my head: “Sometimes people who act the meanest are hurting the most, honey.” Yeah, well, that doesn’t excuse being a jerk.
I could bolt. Right now. Turn around, text Jake that I caught the sudden onset plague, or spotted a yeti on the runway.
Lockhart’s eyes bore into mine. The bright blue has gone stormy, like Alaska’s winter sky before a blizzard. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something that looks like defeat. No snippy comment about my “cavalier attitude.” No lecture about professionalism. Just...silence.
Well, crap. Now I feel bad for him. I hate feeling bad for people who were mean to me. It messes with my whole righteous indignation vibe.
His face does that purple thing again.
“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head.
For once, I agree with him. My fingers find my jacket zipper again. Up, down, up, down.
“Trust me, I’m not thrilled either. But unless you want to stay in Alaska...”
His perfect hair is slightly messed up now, like he’s been running his hands through it.
“There must be another option.” His posh accent slips, revealing something raw underneath.
“Sure, there’s Santa’s sleigh, but I hear he’s booked solid tonight.” The joke falls flat. “Look, I get it. You’d rather eat glass than fly with the help. But I’m your only ticket out of here, or we wouldn’t be in this position, so...”
He flinches at that, and for a second, I see past the designersuit and fancy vocabulary to someone who’s having an even worse day than I am. Which is saying something, considering.
His phone buzzes. He glances at it, his jaw tightening, and I catch a glimpse of multiple missed calls from someone named “Rebecca.”
“Popular girl, this Rebecca.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightens. “If you’re the pilot, perhaps we should discuss the flight instead of my personal affairs.”
“Fine by me. Flight details: it’s gonna be cold, cramped, and completely lacking in caviar service.” I force a customer service smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Any questions?”
“Just one.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How is it possible that my only escape from this frozen hellscape is with the same woman who manhandled a ten-thousand-dollar suitcase like it was a discount store bag?”
“First, it was a five-thousand-dollar suitcase earlier. Inflation really hit hard in the past hour, huh? Second, do you want to leave Alaska tonight or not?”
He looks at his phone again as it buzzes with yet another call from Rebecca. Without breaking eye contact with me, he silences it.
“When do we leave?” His voice sounds hollow.
“Forty minutes. Just enough time for you to mentally prepare for slumming it with the commoners.”
