Page 58 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I hear him climbing down before I see him, boots scraping against the ladder rungs. My body tenses, knowing what’s coming. He lands in the snow with that same graceful precision that makes everything lookeffortless.
“Bailey.” My name in his mouth is a weapon, soft and devastating. “Talk to me.”
I fidget with a loose thread on my sleeve, avoiding his eyes. “About what? The weather? The roof? The fascinating way snow melts at different rates depending on sun exposure?”
“About what’s wrong.”
The thread snaps in my fingers. “Nothing is wrong. The roof’s fixed. Crisis averted. Go, Team Wilderness.”
He steps closer, hand reaching for my face. I flinch back before he can touch me, before I can lean into his palm like I want to.
“Right.” The word falls between us like ice. “Nothing is wrong.”
My throat feels tight as I force the words out. “This will end when we get rescued. Soon.”
His eyes narrow, jaw clenching in that way that means he’s trying to stay controlled. “Is that what you’re doing? Planning for the end before we’ve begun?”
I busy myself with gathering scattered tools, ignoring how my hands shake. “Isn’t that what this is? A beginning with a built-in expiration date?” My voice cracks. “You said it yourself, no relationships.”
“What if I don’t think so anymore?”
The hammer slips from my grip, landing with a dull thud in the snow. “Then you’re hallucinating. Last night was...what it was. Amazing. Perfect. But part of this place, not the real world.”
He reaches for me again, mouth opening with what I’m sure is another reasoned argument. But I’m already moving, ducking under his arm. My leg protests as I dart around him, but adrenaline’s a hell of a painkiller.
“Bailey, wait.”
My fingers fumble with the handle, cold and clumsy. Behind me, he’s getting closer.
“You’re impossible,” he snaps, voice tight with frustration.
I spin around, ignoring how my leg trembles. “No, I’m realistic. You’ll go back to your world, and I’ll go back to mine. That’s how stories like this end. We both know it.”
“You don’t know how it ends,” he says, his voice going soft in that way that makes my chest ache. The same voice he used last night when he whispered my name against my skin. The same voice that could make me believe in fairy tales and happy endings and worlds where people like us make sense together.
I know what I’ll see if I look at him. That expression he gets when he’s trying to solve a problem, like if he just finds the right words, the perfect argument, everything will work out.
“I know how it can’t end,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little. I push through the door before he can respond.
I step inside, letting the door close behind me. Because if I look at him, I might believe him. Might believe that someone who plans everything could want someone who never plans anything. That someone who lives in straight lines could love someone who lives in chaos. That this isn’t just a beautiful accident caused by snow and wolves and loneliness.
The roof is fixed, but something between us is leaking now. Truth and feelings and all the things we’re not saying. He watches me with those eyes that see too much, and I pretend to be fascinated by anything else.
“Bailey.”
“Don’t. Please.” Don’t make me dream. Don’t make me think last night could be more than we agreed on. Don’t make me think this could be more than a beautiful disaster waiting to happen. The roof might be sealed, but my heart? That’s leaking everywhere, and I don’t have enough boards or nails to fix it.
Eighteen
BAILEY
Ialmost miss them at first—tiny glints of glass and glitter scattered across the wooden table like forgotten stars. My fingers trace the familiar curve of broken plastic. Sebastian must have gathered every piece after I threw it at the wolves.
The base is cracked but mostly intact. A casino chip-sized chunk of the dome is missing, lost forever in the snow. I pick up a fragment, watching the tiny dancer swirl in sad, lopsided circles.
“Everyone leaves,” I whisper to the broken pieces. “Even you, Vegas.”
My throat constricts as I arrange the shards into a pitiful attempt at their original shape. The plastic is cold against my fingertips, like all the warmth has leaked out along with the water.
