Page 4 of Mistletoe and Mayday
First, that green-eyed woman nearly destroyed a five-thousand-dollar suitcase, and now this. My girlfriend has vanished from the hotel where she’s supposedly staying.
“I need to speak with your manager.” I adjust my platinum cufflinks, channeling my frustration into the small, controlled movement. “No, spelling it differently won’t help. Rebecca specifically told me she’d be staying at your hotel.”
If there were a Lockhart property in Alaska, this amateur hour would never be happening. The first thing I’mdoing when I get back to Chicago is drafting a proposal for our Board. This level of incompetence only confirms what a gold mine the Alaskan luxury market could be.
The luggage incident replays in my mind. That woman and her complete disregard for proper handling. The way she mocked my vocabulary, as if articulating oneself properly is worthy of ridicule.
“Listen carefully.” My voice drops, each syllable calculated. “I’m going to arrive in approximately twenty minutes. I expect this situation to be resolved by then.”
My fingers brush against the small velvet box in my coat pocket. Every Lockhart man for three generations has proposed with this ring—a family tradition my father reminded me of at least twenty times before I boarded the plane.
The weight of family expectations presses against my chest heavier than the diamond itself. But first, I need to actually find Rebecca.
I close my eyes and breathe, visualizing Rebecca at the Chicago Children’s Hospital gala last month, standing beside me in that midnight blue gown. Her smile never wavered through four hours of small talk with donors.
When the Ward Foundation pledge hit five million, she squeezed my hand under the table, our private signal that we’d succeeded.
Later, she whispered, “We make a formidable team, don’t we?” The perfect partner for business and life.
I picture her face when she sees the ring. Her blue eyes widening, her composure slipping. She’ll try to remain elegant, but I know her well enough to anticipate the slight tremor in her fingers as I slide the ring on.
The woman from earlier catches my eye again, slouched by theweather radar display. Something about her presence intensifies my irritation—the way she exists, completely unbothered, while my plans collapse. She’s one of those people who drift through life without consideration for proper planning or protocol.
I turn away, refocusing on my phone. “No, I’ll hold. And check the system again.”
I catch myself glancing at her once more—impossible to miss with that messy ponytail, strands escaping as if personal grooming is optional. Her green eyes scan the terminal with an intensity that contradicts her casual posture.
She stands taller than most women, with a lean build that speaks to a life of physical demands rather than boardroom negotiations.
But her behavior—that’s what truly grates. The casual disregard, the sharp retorts. I recall how she grabbed that suitcase with zero consideration for its value. The audacity to mock my speech patterns.Who does that?
She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable but masking it with forced nonchalance.
“Mr. Lockhart?” The hotel employee’s voice yanks me from my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“There’s no guest registered under Rebecca’s name. We’ve searched the records twice.”
“Expect me soon,” I say, ending the call.
I take a final look at the woman before heading toward the exit. Something about her pulls at me despite my better judgment. She stands out in a world that’s become painfully predictable. I push the thought aside; I have priorities.
“Let’s see if Alaska’s hospitality can salvage this mess,” I mutter, striding toward the doors.
The glass doors slide open. A blast of cold air follows me inside, carrying the scent of artificial pine, trying, and failing to mask years of neglect.
The lobby stretches before me, a monument to mediocrity. Water stains mark the ceiling tiles, and the carpet shows worn paths from insufficient maintenance.
A Christmas tree leans to one side in the corner, plastic ornaments clustered without consideration for balance or aesthetics.
At the desk, a young man in a blazer that hangs off his frame glances up from his screen. His name tag—James—sits crooked on his chest. Even his typing lacks efficiency.
“Good evening.” I set my briefcase down, adjusting my cuffs. “I need a room number for Rebecca Ward.”
The sound of his hunt-and-peck typing sets my teeth on edge.
“I’m sorry, Sir, we have no reservation under Rebecca Ward.” His voice carries that particular small-town drawl that makes everything sound like a question.
