Page 31 of Mistletoe and Mayday

I focus on Vegas, avoiding his gaze. The glitter forms lazy spirals in morning light. “People usually do.”

His hands freeze mid-motion. “Leave?”

“When I’m too much. Too loud, too honest, too... me.” I shake the globe harder. “Which is pretty much always.”

He’s staring at me with an expression I can’t read. Not pity exactly, but something else. Something that makes my chest weird.

“I won’t leave you to die.” His voice is soft, gentler than I’ve heard it before. “Never. I promise.”

He reaches into his bag, pulling out a silk tie. The deep blue fabric catches the light as he grips both ends.

“Wait, what are you?—”

The sound of tearing silk slices through the crisp morning air.

“Don’t! That’s Hermès!” I blurt, unable to stop myself.

Sebastian pauses mid-tear to stare at me.

“What? I read magazines. Sometimes. When I’m bored. At airports.” The tie makes another ripping sound. “Which apparently taught me to recognize expensive neckwear while stranded in the wilderness. Great survival skill there, Bailey,” I add, mumbling to myself.

His movements remain precise as he measures branches against my leg, wrapping torn silk around the makeshift splint.

“Next you’ll tell me you took wilderness survival courses.”

The way he focuses on tying the knots, refusing to meet my eyes, tells me everything.

“Oh my God, you did.”

Turns out Sebastian’s shoulders are broader than they appear under tailored suits. I wrap my arms around his neck, searching for a position that doesn’t send agony shooting through my leg. The silk-wrapped splint helps, but every step still jolts fire up my spine.

The snow crunches beneath his steady stride. His hands are warm through my jeans where they support my thighs. Not something I should notice.

I scan the terrain, grateful for the distraction. A ridge stretches to our right, cutting a natural path through endless white. “We should follow the ridge.”

“Valley’s faster."

“Fine, Mountain Man. Lead the way.”

“I’m trying to, if you’d stop arguing every three steps.”

“I don’t argue every—” The words catch in my throat as I hear myself.Damn it.

The slope ahead rises like a sheer wall of white. Each step sends fresh waves of pain radiating from my ankle. The world’s edges blur, but admitting weakness to Mr. Perfect is not happening.

He stops so abruptly that I nearly face-plant into his shoulder.

“Break time,” he announces, like calling a board meeting to order.

“I don’t need?—”

“Your breathing’s too shallow.”

I freeze. Since when does Sebastian Lockhart monitor my respiratory patterns? And why does his noticing make my stomach flip?

“I’m conserving oxygen.” My attempt at a laugh sounds brittle.

“I need you conscious.” He settles me against a tree trunk, hand lingering at my waist until he’s certain I won’t topple over.