Page 20 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Bailey stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Did you just...apologize?”
“I believe I did, yes.”
“To someone you consider beneath you?”
“I don’t think—” I stop, remembering how I spoke to her at the airport. How I assumed she worked there. How I treated her. I acted like an ass. No wonder she hates me.
“I’m in a difficult situation right now. Perhaps I’ve given that impression, but it wasn’t my intent.” The words feel inadequate.
My mind flashes to Rebecca’s face, to tangled sheets and stammered excuses. To another man wearing my cologne while in bed with my girlfriend. The ring box feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket. “And I’m not quite myself.”
Bailey’s expression shifts, that combative edge softening. She opens her mouth, probably to ask what kind of situation, but I hope she won’t. The humiliation is still too raw to voice aloud.
She studies my face, her usual rapid-fire commentary absent. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the wind whistling through some gap in the fuselage. Her green eyes narrow, like she’s solving a complex equation.
“Okay,” she says.
The simple acceptance throws me more than any argument could have. I open my mouth to defend myself further, then close it. The familiar urge to control the situation, to explain and justify, dies on my tongue.
Bailey stands, then grabs the back of her seat. A flash of pain crosses her face before she masks it.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She waves off my concern, but I catch the slight hitch in her movement. “Just bumped my leg during landing. No big deal.”
“That doesn’t look fine.”
She ignores me, checking something on her console. The lights flicker, casting shadows across her face.
“Where exactly are we?” I ask, trying to see anything through the snow-covered windows. “Is someone coming?”
“The tower has our coordinates from the emergency broadcast.” She taps the radio. “They know where we went down. Search and rescue will probably get us out of here in no time.”
“Probably?”
She shoots me a look. “Would you prefer I lie and say definitely?”
The silence between us seems different now. Less hostile, more...uncertain.
“We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Bailey looks at me, her expression unreadable. “Welcome to the world’s worst Christmas Eve, Mr. Lockhart.”
Seven
BAILEY
Rule number one of emergency landings: keep the rich guy from having a meltdown.
Rule number two: Don’t mention that his designer suit is now covered in my cookie crumbs.
Rule number three: Maybe stop making rules and figure out why smoke is coming from the engine before we both freeze to death in this winter wonderland.
Snow drifts down on the windshield. The cabin reeks of burned rubber and pine trees. My hands move through the familiar motions. Checking gauges, testing controls, scanning for sparks or leaks. The routine keeps my brain from spinning out.
No fire. Good start.
No fuel leaks. Even better.
