Page 41 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Another thought intrudes. Fuck, it’s Christmas. While I’ve been tramping through snow feeling sorry for myself, she’s missing her family celebration. Stuck in a cabin with a stranger who just stormed out over his wounded pride. My wounded pride.
My gaze lands on a small pine tree—young, crooked, imperfectly perfect. Mother would banish it from our property for daring to deviate from symmetrical elegance. But it’s just the right size for...
“What are you doing?” I ask aloud, already gathering more pinecones. My voice sounds foreign in the forest's quiet. “Making Christmas decorations like some Hallmark movie protagonist?”
Bailey’s voice answers in my head: “Definitely a Hallmark movie. Rich CEO with stick up his ass learns the true meaning of Christmas from quirky pilot? I’d watch that.”
My arms fill with forest debris. Pinecones, twigs, berries that stain my gloves crimson. A branch catches my attention, its natural curve resembling a leaping reindeer.
Bailey would appreciate that. She would point it out, then make up an elaborate backstory about how it’s actually Rudolph’s cousin who didn’t make the sleigh team but started a successful reindeer therapy practice instead.
Mother would require smelling salts if she could see me now. Sebastian Lockhart, Harvard MBA, Wharton MBA, CEO of a billion-dollar hotel chain, tramping through snow, collecting twigs. For a woman who talks to inanimate objects and makes explosion sounds during turbulence.
The branch pokes through my pocket, ruining my pants. I should care about that. I’ve always cared about that.
Instead, I wonder if Bailey will catch how the smaller twig forms perfect antlers.
What the fuck am I doing?
The journey back takes longer than expected. My pathetic Christmas tree catches on every branch like it’s determined to make this as difficult as possible. Much like its intended recipient.
What will I say? Sorry I stormed out sounds inadequate. An apology for my behavior sounds robotic. Nothing fits this situation because nothing about this situation is normal.
Movement catches my eye as the cabin comes into view. Bailey stands at the window, palm pressed against frosted glass.
She’s muttering something, forehead creased with genuine concern. She’s worried.
About me. After I threw a tantrum worthy of a toddler denied a second dessert and stormed into a potential blizzard. Yet there she stands, watching for my return like it matters. Like I matter.
The makeshift tree shifts in my arms, sending snow cascading down my sleeve. A pinecone escapes my pocket, rolling across fresh powder like it’s making a break for freedom.
My gloved hand hovers over the door handle. Through the wood, her voice carries, frustration wrapping around concern.
“...swear to God, if he’s frozen to death out there, I’m going to murder his perfectly tailored corpse. Who dies of hypothermia right after giving a wilderness survival lecture? That’s just spiteful.”
I exhale, watching my breath crystallize and disappear. The tree sheds needles on my coat, each one a reminder of how far I’ve strayed from my carefully plotted course.
I’ve addressed shareholders during hostile takeovers. Negotiated eight-figure deals over breakfast. Fired C-suiteexecutives without blinking. Yet somehow, opening this door requires more courage than any boardroom battle I’ve ever faced.
The hinges creak as I push it open, winter air rushing into the cabin’s warmth.
Bailey spins toward the sound, her expression transforming through shock to relief to something I can’t quite categorize.
“You’re alive!” The words burst from her with unfiltered emotion. Before I can respond, she launches herself at me, arms wrapping around my middle like she’s genuinely afraid I might disappear.
The tree drops from my arms, scattering needles across the rough floorboards as her warmth seeps through my frozen clothes.
I slowly raise my arms, completing the embrace. She feels small against my chest, but her grip is fierce, holding onto me like I’m something precious rather than something prestigious.
Then she spots the fallen tree. Her entire body stills, and she pulls back just enough to stare at it. “Did you... Did you make me Christmas?” Her voice catches, vulnerability threading through the question, making my chest tighten in response.
I should say something clever. Something sophisticated. Something worthy of Sebastian Lockhart.
Instead, I fumble with frozen pockets, extracting squashed berries and broken twigs with all the grace of a child presenting a mud pie.
“You missed your family Christmas, so...” The berries stain my gloves red. “I thought perhaps...”
She studies me, head tilted, like I’m a complex equation she can’t quite solve.
