Page 23 of Mistletoe and Mayday

My fingers find Vegas in my pocket, thumb rubbing over the familiar glass dome.

“We need to find shelter. Fast.”

The wind picks up, whipping snow around us like angry confetti.

“Hello? Earth to fancy suit guy? Did you hear the part about freezing to death? Because that’s definitely on my ‘things to avoid’ list for today.”

Mr. Perfect nods, his perfect hair now completely messed up from the wind. Progress. Sort of.

“I don’t see any shelter,” he says, scanning the endless white landscape.

“I spotted some cabins to the south during our descent.” I point toward a cluster of dark shapes barely visible through the swirling snow. “Before the whole almost-dying thing distracted me. We can make it there before the storm hits. If we hurry.”

He squints in the direction I’m pointing. “How far?”

“Maybe two miles? Three tops.” The wind whips my words away. “But first—” I grab his arm as he moves, then let go because… Touching. Right. Bad idea. “We need supplies. Unless you want to freeze to death looking fabulous.”

Back on the plane, I start my checklist.

“Survival kit, emergency blankets, flares...” My fingers brush something familiar. “Ah!” I pull out my secret compartment. “More cookies!”

His eye twitches. It’s fascinating, really, like watching a perfectly engineered machine malfunction. “We could die here, and you’re excited about cookies?”

“If we’re going to die, might as well enjoy the snacks. Besides, sugar helps with shock. You look like you could use some.”

He ignores my offering, instead turning to his fancy suitcase. And then—oh. Oh no. He’s taking off his suit jacket. And his shirt. And... Wow. Okay. That’s... That’s a lot of muscle. Like an unfair amount of muscle. The kind you see in magazines, all perfect and defined and?—

Stop staring, Bailey.Stop. Staring.

He pulls a thick sweater from his suitcase, then a thermal shirt, moving with that annoying grace rich people seem born with. I definitely don’t watch how his muscles flex as he layers up. Definitely not.

Ishove more supplies into my bag, focusing very hard on not looking at him. “Right. So. Supplies.”

I try to put weight on my ankle again. Bad idea. Terrible idea. A pathetic sound escapes before I can stop it. Something between a whine and a yelp that I’ll definitely deny making later.

“Let me look at it.” His voice has lost that polished edge, replaced by something almost human.

“Thanks, but I don’t need?—”

“Would you stop being difficult for five minutes and let me check?”

“Fine,” I grumble, because arguing takes energy I need. “But slowly.”

My heart jumps into my throat as he reaches for my foot, but his touch is gentle. Like, weirdly gentle. The kind of gentle that makes my stomach do that flippy thing again.

He guides my foot onto his lap, and I bite my lip to keep from making more embarrassing noises. His fingers brush the hem of my pants, carefully rolling up the fabric.

The cold air hits my skin, making me shiver. Or maybe that’s from something else. No. Definitely the cold. Has to be the cold.

“This might hurt,” he warns, reaching for my boot.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the pain. His hands work, unlacing with precise movements. Even through the haze of discomfort, I notice how warm his fingers are against my ankle.

The boot comes off, and I can’t hold back the groan. It feels like someone’s taken a hammer to my bones. When I dare to look, I immediately wish I hadn’t. My ankle’s already turning an impressive shade of red, swelling up like a balloon at a kid’s party.

“That looks...” I swallow hard.

“Nasty,” he finishes, his fingers hovering over the injury.