Page 25 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Perfect. Just perfect. This is definitely karma getting back at me for all those dictionary jokes.
Eight
SEBASTIAN
Sunset bleeds across the Alaskan horizon, giving us thirty minutes of light at most.
I’ve carried the weight of family expectations, corporate empires, and a perfect image my entire life, but none prepared me for carrying Bailey through knee-deep snow as death stalks us with every falling degree.
“Y–you know what’s funny?” Bailey mumbles against my neck, voice tight but fighting for lightness. “If I don’t make it home, my snow globe collection becomes my brother’s problem. He’ll hate that.”
My foot sinks deeper, past my ankle. These boots might as well be slippers for all the protection they offer. My legs are numb.
“Everyone’s getting home,” I say, my breath forming crystals in the air.
Her knuckles whiten around Vegas, that ridiculous snowglobe she refuses to part with. A quiet hiss escapes through her teeth when my stride falters on hidden ice.
She thinks I don’t notice the way her jaw clenches, how she buries her face in my collar. The beads of sweat forming at her hairline despite the freezing temperatures.
The snow crunches under my feet, each step sinking deeper than the last. Her weight shifts as she adjusts her grip around my neck, and I readjust the gear bag hanging from my chest. The straps dig into my shoulders.
“You’re breathing like you’re running a marathon,” she says. “Need a break?”
“I’m fine.” The words rasp out between desperate gulps of air. My personal trainer would mock me. All those perfect form squats, and I’m defeated by carrying one small woman through the snow.
She weighs less than I expected. All that endless chatter and fearless bravado packed into such a slight frame. A smile threatens to form, then dies as Rebecca’s image flashes through my mind—tangled in sheets, stammering excuses. Another man inside her.
My foot catches something hidden beneath the snow. I pitch forward, momentum carrying us toward disaster. Bailey’s fingers dig into my shoulders. The gear bag swings, throwing me further off-balance.
“Sorry,” I mutter, though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. Pure instinct. Be polite. Maintain appearance. Always have a plan.
Look how brilliantly that worked out.
My girlfriend’s sleeping with someone else. I’m stranded in Alaska. And I’m hauling an injured pilot who disguises her grimaces as smiles while critiquing my rescue technique.
The wind sharpens, driving ice crystals into my exposed skin. My thigh muscles burn with each step. Sweat freezes against my temple despite the plummeting temperature.
This is how my perfect proposal ends. Not with a diamond ring and happy tears, but freezing in nowhere with a woman who dislikes me.
Shadows stretch and deepen with each passing minute. The snow transforms from pristine white to blue, then an unsettling gray. Bailey trembles against my back.
Her hands, wrapped around my neck, grow colder. My fingers have lost all feeling inside leather gloves—completely impractical for this weather, just like everything else I packed for a proposal that will never happen.
“We’re not making it to the cabins before dark, are we?” The question hangs between us, stripped of her usual barbed edges. For the first time since we met, she sounds...vulnerable.
I adjust my grip on her legs, fighting to keep us steady as I navigate another drift. The snow reaches mid-thigh now. Each step demands more effort than the last. My tailored wool pants cling to my skin, wet fabric offering the protection of wet tissue paper. We need to get warm, fast.
The cabin looms ahead, a dark promise against the white expanse. Wind whips between skeletal trees, carrying ice shards that sting my face. Our destination blurs through the growing darkness and swirling snow.
I should lie. Say something reassuring. It’s what I’d do facing nervous investors across a conference table. But my usual polish feels as frozen as my feet.
“No,” I admit, the word crystallizing in front of my face. “We’re not.”
“We need shelter. Now.” Her voice hitches, the shivering impossible to hide now. She’s right—the temperature hasdropped faster than our stock did during last quarter’s recession.
I scan our surroundings, but darkness melds everything into a shapeless shadow. The wind cuts through my clothes like they’re nothing. My muscles scream from carrying her. The cabin might as well be on another continent.
Then I spot it—a darker patch against the white, where rock juts out from snow. “There.”
