Page 17 of Mistletoe and Mayday

“B-177, be advised: heavy snow, visibility three miles, winds gusting to twenty-five knots.”

Perfect. Because this night needed more complications.

“Copy conditions. B-177 maintaining heading one-three-five, descending through six thousand feet. Will advise on final approach.”

Next to me, Sebastian’s gone statue-still. The kind of stillness that means someone’s either passed out or about to lose it. I don’t have time to check which.

“Are we going to die?” His voice has lost all its polish.

“Not on my watch. But you might want to hold on to something.” I glance over, my hands steady on the controls even as my stomach twists.

The man who’d been so quick to judge my snow globe now looks small. His perfect suit wrinkled where he grips the armrests. My lucky Las Vegas dancers shake harder in their dome, glitter swirling like a sandstorm.

My leg bounces against the seat again, but not from nerves—it’s helping me think, keeping rhythm with the engine’sdying coughs. Each grinding sound matches a new calculation: altitude, wind speed, angle of descent.

Numbers dance through my head, a familiar pattern that drowns out everything else. Even Sebastian’s ragged breathing fades to background noise.

The controls fight me, the stick shuddering like it’s trying to break free. But I know this plane better than I know most people. Every rattle has a meaning, every shiver tells a story. Right now, she’s telling me we’re running out of time.

“I mean it about holding on.” My fingers tighten on the yoke. “This next part’s going to suck.”

The trees below look like jagged teeth in the fading light. The engine makes another dying sound—not a cough this time, more like a wheeze.Where’s that clearing?

“There’s the runway.” I squint through the windshield at the snow-covered strip barely visible in the darkening landscape. “Hope you didn’t check any luggage, because this is our stop.”

“That’s not a runway.” Sebastian’s voice cracks. “That’s a white rectangle in the middle of nowhere.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I fight to keep us level as the last engine sputters. “Think of it as the wilderness package your luxury hotel doesn’t offer.”

I’ve practiced emergency landings hundreds of times in simulators. None of them had Christmas music playing in the background.

The snow in the clearing sparkles like diamond dust. Pretty, until you remember snow means ice, and ice means... Well, better not think about that right now.

Sebastian’s breathing sounds like he’s trying to hyperventilate in perfect rhythm. His knuckles have gone white where they grip the armrests.

Brace for impact sounds too dramatic. And we’re going to have an unscheduled meeting with the ground seems too flippant. Even I know when not to joke.

The clearing appears through the clouds. Snow-covered, small, but it’ll have to do.

“Hey, Mr. Perfect?” My voice stays light despite the death grip I have on the controls.

“Yes?” The word comes out strained, like it had to fight past his clenched jaw.

“Remember how you hated my humming?”

“Yes?”

I push the yoke forward, aiming for the least tree-filled spot in the clearing.

“You’re going to hate this landing a lot more.”

Six

SEBASTIAN

The plane lurches sideways, and my stomach follows. Through the windshield, snow-covered trees rush up to meet us at a speed no human could survive. My hands grip the armrests until my knuckles turn white.

“Come on, hold together,” Bailey mutters to the plane, her hands dancing over controls I don’t understand. The entire cabin vibrates. Her usual rambling has transformed into clipped, technical muttering.