Page 32 of Mistletoe and Mayday
A protein bar materializes in his hand. It’s one of those organic ones with ingredients I can’t pronounce, probably costs twelve dollars.
“You’re a walking REI catalog, aren’t you?”
“Eat.” The word leaves no room for debate.
“That’s not asking nicely.” I cross my arms, ignoring how the movement makes me sway.
“Eat, please?” The word “please” comes out like he’s passing a kidney stone.
“Was that so hard?”
“Harder than the hiking,” he says. But he’s smiling now.
His smile transforms his entire face—softening that sharp jawline, crinkling the corners of those stormy blue eyes. The light catches in his dark hair, turning strands almost golden where snow has dampened them.
His girlfriend wakes up to that smile every morning over fancy espresso and those pretentious little French pastries with unpronounceable names.
Lucky bitch.
The thought punches through me, unexpected and unwelcome. I cram another bite into my mouth, desperate for any distraction from noticing how his eyes catch light or how capable his hands look adjusting my splint.
Some other woman gets to see beneath the perfect facade. Gets to witness the real Sebastian, not just the CEO mask he shows the world. I think I would like to see the real Sebastian.
My stomach twists, and it has nothing to do with the protein bar.
My treacherous leg buckles when I try to stand. The world tilts sideways. Sebastian lunges forward, but my flailing throws us both off-balance. We crash into snow, a tangle of limbs and curses.
“Ow!” Something digs into my side. “Your elbow’s in my ribs!”
“Your snow globe’s in my face!” He shifts, making everything worse.
“Don’t you dare scratch Vegas!” I clutch my precious treasure closer, but the motion arches my back, pressing my chest against his. Heat floods my face despite the freezing air.
An exasperated sound rumbles from his chest, the vibration traveling straight through my coat to places that have no business responding to Sebastian Lockhart. “That’s your priority right now?”
“Hey, Vegas has survived a plane crash. I won’t let your cheekbones be what finally breaks him.”
Sebastian’s hands find my waist as I wobble upright, his fingers spanning my sides, thumbs dangerously close to the underside of my breasts. The movement brings our faces so close that I can count individual snowflakes caught in his eyelashes.
His breath warms my lips, smelling faintly of mint—because, of course, Sebastian Lockhart has found a way to have fresh breath in the wilderness. His pupils dilate slightly as his gaze drops to my mouth.
Snowflakes cling to his dark hair. My fingers itch to brush them away, to grab fistfuls of those perfect strands and discover if they’re as soft as they look. To pull his face those last few inches toward mine.
I curl my fingers into fists. Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about his stupidly perfect hair or strong hands or how his body felt pressed against mine. Not noticing how his touch gentles whenever he handles my injured leg. Not remembering what I felt pressed against my hip this morning.
“You’ve got snow in your hair,” he says, voice rougher than usual. His hand lifts like he might brush it away, then freezes mid-motion. He turns his face, jaw tightening, like he didn’t mean to notice. Like he’s fighting the same battle I am.
My mouth operates without consulting my brain. “You’ve got snow everywhere.”Smooth, Bailey.Maybe next I’ll point out that water is wet or that fire burns. Or that the way his pants pull tight across his thighs when he crouches makes my mouth go dry.
The moment stretches between us, taut as a wire. Then my ankle gives a warning throb, breaking the spell. I wince, and Sebastian’s expression shifts from whatever that was back to focused determination.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, adjusting my position against his chest. “Arms around my neck.”
The trek stretches. I clench my teeth against the pain, determined not to make a sound. Not to be more annoying than I already am. The silence blankets us, broken only by the crunch of Sebastian’s boots and his labored breathing.
His grip shifts, adjusting me higher. “You’re being unusually quiet.”
“Trying something new.” My voice emerges weaker than intended. “Not being too much.”
