Page 67 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“I don’t snore,” he protests with mock offense.
“You absolutely do. Like a hibernating bear with sinus issues.”
His laugh transforms into a grimace. “Don’t make me laugh. I think they took half my blood volume for testing.”
“At least your doctor didn’t keep asking if you were experiencing ‘confused thinking or unusual behavior.’ I finally told mine that my usual behavior is already pretty unusual, so how would I know?”
Sebastian’s smile fades. “Bailey, I should warn you—my family’s flying in. Their plane lands in about half an hour.”
Moments after he says that, the cavalry arrives in Gucci and Armani, heralded by squeaking designer shoes on linoleum. A small army of coordinated professionals sweeps through the hospital wing like a designer tsunami, all sharp edges and perfect hair and synchronized movements.
“Mr. Lockhart.” A woman in a suit so perfectly tailored it might be painted on strides forward. “We have everything arranged. Dr. Morrison is here from Chicago to oversee your care personally.”
Sebastian starts to speak, but she’s already directing traffic like a fashion-conscious air traffic controller. “James will handle your luggage. Maria can fix your hair before we board. The jet will be fueled and ready in an hour.”
A man appears with a garment bag. “Your fresh suit, Sir.”
I sink deeper into my hospital bed, trying to disappear into the scratchy sheets. This is his world. All efficiency and luxury, and people who take care of him. After twelve hours of shared hospital food and comparing bruises, reality crashes through our bubble.
The new doctor looks like he stepped out of a medical drama, all silver hair and distinguished features. He takes over from the hospital staff, speaking in the kind of cultured tones that make my teeth itch.
“Bailey.” Sebastian’s voice cuts through the controlled chaos. He hasn’t moved toward the suit or the hairdresser or any of his world’s trappings. He’s looking at me like he’s drowning in designer labels and needs a lifeline.
But I’m not a lifeline. I’m the anchor that could drag him down to my messy, unfiltered world of cargo planes and snow globes.
“Go,” I say, forcing a smile. “Your hair really needs professional help.”
“We still need to talk.” His eyes hold mine, searching for something I can’t afford to give.
“Sebastian, darling! Thank God!”
A woman sweeps in, her heels clicking against the linoleum in perfect rhythm, each step a declaration of status.
My heart sinks into my stomach as Sebastian’s whole body language changes in a single heartbeat. His spine straightens like someone’s attached invisible strings, his shoulders square, and just like that, my Sebastian disappears behind Mr. Lockhart’s perfect mask. The transformation is so complete it steals my breath, like watching someone vanish before my eyes.
“Mother.” His voice has that polished edge again, the one that made me want to yell at him when we first met. “I wasn’t expecting?—”
“Whenmy son disappears in Alaska with some...pilot, did you think I’d just sit at home?” She says “pilot” the way most people say “cockroach.”
His mother’s gaze slides over me, each flicker of her eyes cataloging my deficiencies—borrowed hospital clothes hanging off my frame, hair that hasn’t seen shampoo in days, the complete absence of anything that might suggest value in her world.
“This is the...personwho crashed your plane?” she asks, each word delivered with surgical precision.
My cheeks burn hot enough to melt snow while my fingers twist into the borrowed scrubs that hang from my frame like a discount Halloween costume. A rebellious strand of hair flops across my vision for the hundredth time, tangled with what’s definitely a pine needle—a tiny souvenir from our wilderness sanctuary that’s now just an embarrassing reminder of my otherness.
I swipe it away, only for it to fall right back. In the reflection of the medical equipment, I catch a glimpse of myself—wild-eyed and wind-chapped, looking like I’ve been dragged backward through the Alaskan wilderness. Which, technically, I have.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack as the perfect Lockhart family appraises me with their perfect eyes from their perfect heights.
Their synchronized microexpressions of distaste might as well be a choreographed dance number. Let them look. Let them see the mess who kept their precious Sebastian alive while they were planning photo ops and press releases.
I wait for Sebastian to say something. To tell her I didn’t crash the plane, that I saved his life, that I’m not just some “person.” That we... That we were... Something. Anything.
But he just stands there, mouth slightly open, caught between worlds. Between the man he was in the cabin and the son he is now.
The silence stretches, filling with all the things he isn’t saying.
His mother fills the void instead. “Well, at least you’re alive. Though I can’t imagine what possessed you to get on a cargo flight in the first place.” She touches his arm, her red-tipped fingers curling around his sleeve. “You should have waited for the family jet.”
