Page 82 of Mistletoe and Mayday

Her head snaps up. “What do you want?”

What do I want? Not what should I want. Not what’s expected. What do I, Sebastian Lockhart, actually want?

“I want someone who collects snow globes and makes sound effects for snowfall. I want someone who talks too much when they’re nervous and throws precious souvenirs at wolvesto save me. I want someone who makes me question everything I thought I knew. I want someone real.”

And another step closer. Close enough to see her pulse fluttering at her throat.

“I want you, Bailey. Just as you are.”

She stares at me, eyes suspiciously bright. “I’m a lot. Too much, most people say.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Her laugh comes out shaky, barely more than a breath. “This is insane. You’re Sebastian Lockhart. You run a billion-dollar company. You wear suits that cost more than my plane repairs.”

“And you’re Bailey Monroe. You fly cargo planes and have no filter and scare off wolves with tourist trinkets.” I hold out the snow globes, one in each hand. “We make no sense on paper.”

“None at all,” she agrees.

“So?” I ask, heart hammering against my ribs. “What do you say?”

The first snow globe sits in her hands, small and silly. Her expression shifts through a dozen emotions as she stares at it.

“I can’t just jump into this because you bought some snow globes and made a grand gesture. That’s not how trust works.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll wait for you as long as it takes for you to believe me. A day. A week. A year. I’ll be here.”

She tilts her head, disbelief written across her features. “Here? In a cargo terminal?”

“Wherever you are.” I mean it with a conviction that surprises even me. “If you’re in Seattle, I’ll be in Seattle. If you’re in Tokyo, I’ll be in Tokyo. If you decide to fly to the North Pole, I hope you have room for a passenger, because I’ll be on that plane.”

A hint of a smile touches her lips. “That’s slightly stalkerish, you know.”

“I prefer to think of it as dedicated.”

“I have to go,” she whispers. “My flight?—”

“Go. But know I’ll be there when you land. With a snow globe from every city until you’re ready.”

Her hands shake as she takes the second globe, fingers brushing mine. The touch sends electricity through me. My own hands aren’t steady either.

She looks from the globes to me; the battle happening behind those expressive eyes. Run or stay. Escape or risk. The safety of flight versus the danger of believing in something that might not last.

Sometimes the scariest turbulence happens on the ground.

The wind tosses her hair across her face. She doesn’t push it away—just stands frozen in indecision, holding my ridiculous offerings like they might shatter if she grips them too tightly.

“I have a flight manifest,” she says again, her voice barely audible above the distant roar of engines. “People waiting for their cargo.”

“I know.”

“I can’t just?—”

“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “Fly your plane, Bailey. Do what you love. I’ll be waiting.”

The snow globes catch the winter light, sending tiny rainbows across her uniform. She looks down at them, then back at me.

“You’re Sebastian Lockhart,” she says, like she’s reminding herself. “You don’t wait for cargo pilots.”