Page 3 of Mistletoe and Mayday
The barista’s eyes widen. “Oookay then. What’ll it be?”
“Double espresso,” he orders, voice softer now. “And whatever she wants.” He gestures in my direction, not quite meeting my eyes.
“I can buy my own coffee, thanks.”
“Please,” he says, his formal tone cracking around the edges. “Consider it an apology.”
“For what? Being insufferable or just existing?”
His jaw tightens, but then he takes a measured breath. “For making assumptions. I’m not usually...like this.” He straightens his already straight tie. “It’s been a tough day.”
I study him for a moment. He’s lying about not being like this. His pressed suit and perfectly manicured nails scream uptight billionaire, but something in his eyes looks genuinely rattled.
“My treat,” he insists to the barista, who’s watching us like we’re a reality show.
“Fine. Peppermint mocha. Extra whipped cream.” I accept, though I don’t believe his sudden nice guy act for a second.
“How predictable—” He catches himself, then offers a strained smile. “Festive choice.”
“Says the man who probably has a spreadsheet for his Christmas shopping.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just looks away like I’ve accidentally hit too close to home.
I grab my drink and find a quiet corner to submit my flight plans for tomorrow, triple-checking every detail. The last thing I need is some pencil-pusher finding a reason to ground me over a misplaced decimal point.
“What do you mean, there’s no one by that name?” The suit guy’s voice carries across the cafe as he paces near the condiment station. “She told me she would be staying at this hotel. No, please check again. She must be there.”
“Check the spelling one more time,” he insists into his phone, pacing in a tight circle. “W-A-R-D.”
My fingers drum against my thigh, keeping time with the melody playing to drown out the fluorescent hum, making my head throb. Seriously, who thought these lights were a good idea?
“There’s no reservation? She specifically said—” He breaks off, jaw clenching. The color in his face fades to an alarming shade of pale. It’s like watching someone in slow-motion meltdown, and I’m not even getting popcorn out of this.
I should definitely walk away and not eavesdrop. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I have a cargo manifest to review and a slim chance at Christmas dinner and?—
“No, please check again. She has to be there.” His businesslike demeanor crumbles completely. The desperation in his voice slices through the holiday cheer. “Never mind, I’m on my way now.”
He hangs up, staring at his phone like it transformed into a snake. For a moment, beneath the expensive suit and attitude stands a guy having a truly shit day.
The lost look in his eyes tugs at me in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
Mr. Dictionary strides toward the exit, his designer suitcase rolling perfectly behind him despite the scratch. He doesn’t look back.
Relief washes over me as the automatic doors close behind him. Thank God that’s over, and I’ll never have to see him again. One less entitled rich guy in my life to deal with.
The sooner I get out of Fairbanks, the better.
My phone buzzes. “Weather advisory update. Storm system accelerating from the north. All flight plans require immediate review.”
My stomach drops as I pull up the radar. The storm that was safely north has shifted course directly into my path.
Two
SEBASTIAN
I’ve planned this night down to the minute. Private chef—booked. String quartet—scheduled. Northern lights—forecasted to appear at precisely 11:47 PM. Eight-carat flawless diamond—burning a hole in my pocket. What I didn’t plan for was Rebecca’s disappearance.
My temples throb as I pace the terminal, phone pressed against my ear. The cheerful Christmas music mocks me like a personal affront.
