Page 88 of Mistletoe and Mayday
Their chaotic encouragement settles something in my chest. They’ve never led me wrong before—well, except forthat time Riley convinced me to ride a mechanical bull after six margaritas. But even then, they were there to help me ice my bruises and salvage my dignity.
But texting isn’t enough. Words on a screen won’t fix what I broke. I need to see his face when I tell him I was wrong. I need him to see mine when I say I’m sorry. When I say that I’m terrified but willing to try.
The decision hits like a lightning bolt. Clear. Certain. Right.
I’m flying to Chicago.
Cora
You go, girl!
Lots of heart emojis.
I’m across the room in three strides, yanking my laptop open so hard it almost falls off the desk. The airline website loads slowly, each second stretching my already frayed nerves.
There’s a 6 AM flight to Chicago. One seat left in economy.
I book it, fingers flying over the keyboard before I lose my courage.
Tomorrow morning I’ll be in Chicago. No plan, no script, no idea what I’ll say. Just me, showing up, the way he showed up for me.
I grab my still-damp hair into a messy bun and start throwing clothes into a bag. Clean jeans. A sweater. My least wrinkled button-down. The Chicago snow globe, wrapped in my softest t-shirt.
“This is insane,” I tell my empty apartment. “Completely insane.”
But for the first time in days, the hollow feeling is gone, replaced by something else. Something that feels dangerously like hope.
He flew across the country for me. Found me in a cargo terminal with snow globes and promises.
The least I can do is board a plane and tell him he was right.
Twenty-Five
BAILEY
Three thousand miles and three minutes—that’s all I need to change everything.
My hands tremble as I count the heartbeats left before I lose my nerve. A few days ago, I thought I’d never speak to Sebastian Lockhart again. Now here I stand, ready to beg.
I stare up at Lockhart Industries, sixty floors of glass and steel soaring into the Chicago sky.
The revolving door spins ahead. My distorted reflection fractured across its surface. One push and there’s no turning back. My stomach drops as I step inside.
Three receptionists perch behind a curved white desk, each plucked from the pages of Vogue. The woman in the center glances up, her perfect smile faltering as she catalogs my disastrous state.
I didn’t stop to change after the flight. Wrong decision. My jeans sport a coffee masterpiece from whenturbulence hit somewhere over Iowa, and my hair has expanded to twice its normal size—my body’s natural stress response.
“Can I help you?” Her voice could chill champagne.
My throat constricts. What exactly was my brilliant plan here? Rush across the country unannounced, storm his fortress of glass and steel, and then... What? I didn’t think past the grand entrance. Classic Bailey move.
Excuse me, I’m the impulsive cargo pilot who shattered your boss’s heart on Tuesday, told him never to contact me again on Wednesday, and now I’ve depleted my savings on a red-eye Friday flight for the privilege of standing in your lobby looking like something the airport janitor swept up. Could you pencil me in between his billion-dollar meetings for our tearful reconciliation?
“I need to see Sebastian Lockhart.” The words scrape out.
Her eyebrows climb. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but?—”
