Page 37 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“Promise.”
Eleven
BAILEY
“The good news is we won’t die of starvation,” I say, rummaging through our scavenged supplies. “The bad news is we might wish we had after trying these beans from—” I squint at the faded label. “Holy shit, I think this can was manufactured before I was born.”
Pain shoots up from my ankle as I shift my weight. I white-knuckle the counter edge, balancing on my good leg. Every movement sends fresh daggers through my joints, but I keep exploring the kitchen, fingers trailing across the walls for support.
“You need to rest that leg,” Sebastian says for the millionth time, shadowing my movements, arms half-extended as if expecting me to topple.
“I need to not die of boredom.” I reach for another cupboard, wobbling as my leg trembles. “Besides, someone has to check our gourmet options.”
His warm fingers close around my elbow, steadying me. I ignore the heat spreading from his touch up my arm.
“I already cataloged everything while you were unconscious.” His voice is soft. “By expiration date.”
“Of course you did.” I grab the dustiest can I can find. “But did you appreciate the vintage? This one’s practically an antique. I think there’s rust growing on the rust."
Sebastian’s eye twitches when I thrust the can toward him. I catch him fighting against a smile.
“Welcome to Chez Wilderness,” I declare in a terrible French accent, punctuating it with a chef’s kiss. “Tonight’s special is...” I shake the can, wincing at the sound of liquid sloshing where there shouldn’t be any, “death by botulism with a side of desperation.”
I twist to reach my backpack, and lightning bolts shoot up from my ankle. I bite my cheek, refusing to show weakness. With a determined yank, I upend my pack onto the counter, spilling candy bars, trail mix, and emergency supplies across the dust-covered surface.
“Let’s see, we’ve got crackers, peanut butter, and—” I poke at a questionable foil packet “—something that might’ve been soup when dinosaurs roamed the earth.”
Sebastian leans closer, inspecting my haul. His cologne cuts through the cabin’s musty air. It’s not fair that after crashing in Alaska and being stranded in a blizzard, he still smells like he walked out of a luxury department store.
His proximity sends a rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with the fire. My body betrays me with a sudden awareness of every inch where we might touch if I just leaned back.
I inhale deeper, then freeze when I catch him watching me.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I pivot too quickly, and my injured ankle gives way. His hand catches my waist before I collapse, his palm burning through my thermal shirt. “Just checking if these beans are toxic. With my nose. Very scientific. Don’t they teach food science at fancy CEO school?”
Heat crawls up my neck. We’re standing too close. I can count individual flecks of gold in his blue eyes, see the stubble darkening his jaw, smell his ridiculous cologne that shouldn’t work in a wilderness cabin but somehow make my stomach flip. His breath warms my lips. My pulse hammers in my throat, and for a crazy second, I think he might kiss me. Worse. I want him to.
“Hey, look!” I push away from him. “I’ve got chocolate. And trail mix. We’re feasting at the Waldorf.”
I hop-stumble to the stove, dragging my foot behind me like a dead limb. I steady the ancient pot on the burner, water sloshing over the sides as I struggle to maintain my balance.
“The peanut butter’s salvageable once I scrape off the top layer, and the crackers only taste slightly like cardboard.”
Sebastian watches me work, eyebrows climbing higher with each hop and pivot. His expression screams surprise, like he can’t believe the chaos pilot knows her way around a kitchen. Those calculating eyes track my every movement, cataloging my competence like it’s some fascinating anomaly.
I ignore his stare, focusing on transforming our sad ingredients into something almost edible. What did he expect? That I survive on protein bars and airplane peanuts? I’ve lived alone since high school. Of course, I can cook. Not that there’s anything decent to cook here.
I arrange our pathetic meal on the lopsided table, adding a pinecone centerpiece with a flourish. “Dinner is served,Your Majesty.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You mean resourceful. I even saved you the red M&M’s.”
Sebastian paces near the window, glaring at the storm outside. “There has to be a signal somewhere.”
“Trust me, they know where we went down.” I dunk a cracker into the peanut butter, hoping the sweet-salty combination might distract me from the throbbing that keeps time with my heartbeat. “But in this weather? No one’s flying in. We’d just end up with more people needing rescue.”
