Page 38 of Mistletoe and Mayday
He rakes his fingers through his hair. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “You need proper medical attention. That leg...” He turns, fixing me with a stare so intense it steals my breath. “If it’s not treated correctly, there could be permanent damage. I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
Something cracks in my chest. He’s worried. Not annoyed or inconvenienced—genuinely concerned. Mr. Perfect, whom I’ve done nothing but irritate since we met, looks like someone kicked his puppy.
I don’t know what to do with that. With any of it. With the way he’s looking at me, or how his cologne somehow still smells amazing after everything, or how my heart’s doing this weird stuttering thing.
“I...” My voice breaks. Smooth, Bailey. I clear my throat. “It’s fine. Just a bad sprain. I’ve had worse. This one time in Denver, I dislocated my?—”
“Bailey.” Just my name, but something in how he says it makes me stop talking. That’s a first.
“I’m okay.” The words come out soft, stripped of my usual armor. “See.” I wiggle my toes, biting through my cheek. “All moving parts still functioning.”
His forehead creases with worry lines. Without his usual perfect composure, he looks more human. Less Mr. Perfect, more just...Sebastian. I think I like just Sebastian.
“You need to eat.” I push crackers toward him. “Can’t have you fainting on me. Who’d carry me through the snow then?”
His expression softens. “I thought you said you could walk.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I enjoy being carried.” The words escape before I can trap them. Heat floods my face. “I mean—the crackers. Eat the crackers. To maintain your...carrying strength. For emergencies. Not that I want more emergencies. Or more carrying. I should have stopped talking five minutes ago.”
He picks up a cracker, which I count as a victory. The worry lines smooth slightly as he takes a bite.
“These aren’t terrible,” he admits, reaching for another.
“High praise from the man who has a chef on speed dial.”
“I don’t...” He pauses, something shuttering behind his eyes. “Not anymore.”
“Try the peanut butter,” I say, before he can retreat into whatever darkness I glimpsed. “It’s protein. Only slightly radioactive by now.”
I hop toward the woodpile, using the wall for balance. I need to do something, anything, to stop staring at Sebastian while he eats those crackers like they’re gourmet cuisine. The way his jaw moves when he chews, and I’m pretty sure that’s not a normal thing to notice about someone.
My hip bumps his pants hanging near the fire to dry. Something falls from the pocket, landing with a soft thud against my good foot.
A small velvet box.
My heart stops. My lungs forget how to work.
Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it.
The box feels heavier than it should as I bend to pick it up, warm from hanging near the flames. Sebastian remains at the table, spreading peanut butter on a cracker like he’s preparing hors d’oeuvres for royalty.
I shouldn’t open it. I really shouldn’t.
My thumb finds the catch.
The diamond inside is stunning. Classic, tasteful setting. Expensive. Exactly the kind of ring Mr. Perfect would choose.
Oh God.
He’s going to propose.
A strange hollow feeling spreads under my ribs. I shouldn’t care. We’ve known each other, what—two days? Three? Yet something twists inside me, sharp and unexpected. Since when do I care about Sebastian Lockhart’s relationship status?
This is ridiculous. So we shared some crackers and fought off hypothermia together. So what?
But I thought... What, exactly? That those lingering glances meant something? That the way his hand stayed at my waist a beat too long wasn’t just good manners? God, Bailey, get a grip. He’s just worried, that’s all.
Of course, he’s taken. He’s Sebastian Lockhart. He has a perfect girlfriend somewhere who doesn’t ramble about snow globes or make inappropriate jokes or get him stranded in the Alaskan wilderness with a bum leg.
