Mistletoe and Mayday (The Valeur Billionaires)

Chapter 1

One

BAILEY

My Fairbanks layover plan involved coffee and ignoring humanity, not wrestling some billionaire's luggage while his face did an impressive impersonation of an angry eggplant.

Still, points for entertainment value after that cross-country flight to get here. Wonder if he'll hit “apoplectic plum” before security arrives?

The jammed luggage carousel groans under my grip as I wrestle with the stupid designer suitcase wedged between metal guards.

All I Want for Christmas blares through the terminal speakers for the millionth time today, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, each high note stabbing into my skull.

“Come on, you overpriced piece of shit.”

The entire luggage belt sits frozen while other passengers stand back, arms crossed, glaring at the red flashing light like it might fix everything. Common sense would tell me to join them. Common sense and I have never been on speaking terms.

I dig my heels in, giving the suitcase an aggressive yank. My hands slip while impatient travelers’ eyes bore into my back.

It’s like they’re all judging me, probably thinking, Who does this chick think she is? A problem solver, that’s who. The kind who can’t walk past a jammed door without trying the handle.

Mr. Designer Everything materializes beside me, vibrating with nervous energy. His impeccable suit hugs his athletic frame in all the right places. Annoyingly perfect cheekbones frame full lips currently pressed into a tight line. Dark hair styled just messy enough to look effortless.

Damn him for being exactly my type, wrapped in everything I can’t stand.

“I must insist you exercise appropriate caution,” he says, his tone so precise it feels rehearsed. That tone—the one people use when they’ve already decided I’m beneath them—makes my skin crawl.

The fluorescent lights already have my brain buzzing when he grabs my arm. Wrong move. My skin burns where he touches me.

Deep breaths, Bailey. Just like in therapy.

My blood pressure spikes, heart hammering against my ribs. My mind races through a million responses, none of them polite.

“Your cavalier attitude toward other people’s possessions is precisely what’s wrong with the current state of customer service,” he continues, voice dripping with condescension.

Those blue eyes—stormy and intense—would be captivating if they weren’t currently looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his expensive shoe.

“First,” I begin, pulling my arm free and ignoring the lingering warmth where his fingers touched, “you don’t get to touch me without permission.

Second, if you think customer service is bad, try living in the real world where people aren’t wrapped in bubble wrap and handed everything on a silver platter.

” My words come out sharp, but hey, he asked for it.

His eyes widen, probably not used to being talked back to. The gears turn behind those gorgeous blue eyes, recalibrating for someone who doesn’t cower at his polished demeanor. The entire scene feels almost surreal, like an obscene parody of a high society drama.

My brother’s voice echoes: “Count to ten, Bails.”

One. Christmas Eve dinner’s slipping away with each delay.

Two. His suit could pay off my car.

Three. The way he looks at me mirrors every man who’s ever questioned my right to a cockpit—

Oh, screw counting.

Last Christmas starts playing. The lights drill into my skull.

Too many people staring. And this guy. Keeps. Talking.

“Listen, Mr. Fancy Vocabulary,” I snap, because apparently we’re doing this, “I was trying to help. But sure, get it yourself. Good luck with that.”

His face hits purple level eight, veins popping while he fumbles with the suitcase, muttering about “uncouth behavior” and “standards of service” like he’s reciting a bad Yelp review.

I notice the way his forearms flex as he tugs at the suitcase. I wish I didn’t.

I should walk away.

“Do you always talk like you swallowed Webster’s Unabridged when you’re having a meltdown, or am I just your lucky verbal punching bag?” Red flags wave in my mind while my mouth stages a full-blown rebellion.

My phone buzzes against my hip, saving me from a potentially lethal dose of pompousness. I turn away and pull it out. Mom’s annual Christmas Eve guilt-trip-a-thon.

A precisely timed where-are-you-and-why-are-you-putting-me-through-this-again inquisition. I silence it without looking.

The suitcase pops free with a satisfying thunk, thanks to my sneaky push from the other side while he was busy ranting about proper etiquette or whatever.

He doesn’t notice my help. They never do. Just another invisible good deed from your friendly neighborhood pilot, who’s going to miss her mom’s famous roasted potatoes at this rate.

Through the windows of the Fairbanks terminal, fat snowflakes dance down harder by the minute, the storm front moving faster than predicted. Great. Just what I need when I’m trying to get home in time for Christmas Eve tomorrow. I promised Mom: this year will be different.

“Look what you’ve done!” He points at a scratch on his precious suitcase like it’s evidence in a murder trial. “This is a genuine Italian brand!”

My brain-to-mouth filter fails. “Oh no, your overpriced suitcase got a boo-boo. Should we call a doctor? Maybe designer band-aids exist in your tax bracket?”

His jaw clenches so tight that his teeth crack audibly. “Do you have any concept of the value—”

“Of what? That status symbol on wheels?” The words pour out now. “It still holds the same amount of stuff as my Target special. But hey, at least yours matches your whole...” I wave my hand at his general...everything, “...vibe.”

He runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up just enough to make it look better. For a breath, something real flashes across his face. The same look Mom gave me when I told her I’d taken the Christmas Eve flight. The resignation of someone who expects disappointment.

“This is completely unprofessional. I demand to speak with your supervisor.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “Oh my God, you actually said it. The Karen battle cry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t work here, Mr. Dictionary. Just a good Samaritan with apparently terrible judgment.” I tap my pilot’s wings pin. “But sure, go ahead, report me to the luggage carousel police.”

His face does this fascinating thing where it can’t decide between embarrassment and anger. “You... You’re a pilot?”

“No, I just wear this for fashion. Goes great with my jacket, don’t you think?”

For a moment, his face does something fascinating, like it’s trying to decide between mortified and furious. He adjusts the handle on his suitcase, shoulders stiff, and strides away without another word.

Good riddance.

I drift over to the weather radar display to see storm clouds clustering ominously over the region. Getting out of here later looks doubtful, the realization settling in my stomach like a stone.

Christmas Eve dinner at home slips further away with each snowflake. Mom’s going to give me that stare—the “my daughter chose planes over family again” look that could melt steel.

My fingers hover over my phone. I should call her now, prep her for another empty seat. Three Christmases in a row.

No. I might still make it.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since that sad protein bar a few hours ago.

I head toward the one open cafe in the terminal, only to find the line stretching halfway to the baggage claim.

Of course, Mr. Dictionary stands in front of me, scrolling through his phone with manicured fingers.

“Next!” The barista waves us forward. “What can I get for you two?”

“We’re not together,” we say in perfect unison.

The barista’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry. You were standing so close, and you kept looking at each other. Thought you were having a lovers’ quarrel.”

“I would sooner date my aircraft’s fuel tank,” I mutter.

“I don’t want to date you,” Mr. Perfect says, then stops. His shoulders drop. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—” He clears his throat. “That was uncalled for.”

The barista’s eyes widen. “Oookay then. What’ll it be?”

“Double espresso,” he orders, voice softer now. “And whatever she wants.” He gestures in my direction, not quite meeting my eyes.

“I can buy my own coffee, thanks.”

“Please,” he says, his formal tone cracking around the edges. “Consider it an apology.”

“For what? Being insufferable or just existing?”

His jaw tightens, but then he takes a measured breath. “For making assumptions. I’m not usually...like this.” He straightens his already straight tie. “It’s been a tough day.”

I study him for a moment. He’s lying about not being like this. His pressed suit and perfectly manicured nails scream uptight billionaire, but something in his eyes looks genuinely rattled.

“My treat,” he insists to the barista, who’s watching us like we’re a reality show.

“Fine. Peppermint mocha. Extra whipped cream.” I accept, though I don’t believe his sudden nice guy act for a second.

“How predictable—” He catches himself, then offers a strained smile. “Festive choice.”

“Says the man who probably has a spreadsheet for his Christmas shopping.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just looks away like I’ve accidentally hit too close to home.

I grab my drink and find a quiet corner to submit my flight plans for tomorrow, triple-checking every detail. The last thing I need is some pencil-pusher finding a reason to ground me over a misplaced decimal point.

“What do you mean, there’s no one by that name?” The suit guy’s voice carries across the cafe as he paces near the condiment station. “She told me she would be staying at this hotel. No, please check again. She must be there.”

“Check the spelling one more time,” he insists into his phone, pacing in a tight circle. “W-A-R-D.”

My fingers drum against my thigh, keeping time with the melody playing to drown out the fluorescent hum, making my head throb. Seriously, who thought these lights were a good idea?

“There’s no reservation? She specifically said—” He breaks off, jaw clenching. The color in his face fades to an alarming shade of pale. It’s like watching someone in slow-motion meltdown, and I’m not even getting popcorn out of this.

I should definitely walk away and not eavesdrop. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I have a cargo manifest to review and a slim chance at Christmas dinner and—

“No, please check again. She has to be there.” His businesslike demeanor crumbles completely. The desperation in his voice slices through the holiday cheer. “Never mind, I’m on my way now.”

He hangs up, staring at his phone like it transformed into a snake. For a moment, beneath the expensive suit and attitude stands a guy having a truly shit day.

The lost look in his eyes tugs at me in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

Mr. Dictionary strides toward the exit, his designer suitcase rolling perfectly behind him despite the scratch. He doesn’t look back.

Relief washes over me as the automatic doors close behind him. Thank God that’s over, and I’ll never have to see him again. One less entitled rich guy in my life to deal with.

The sooner I get out of Fairbanks, the better.

My phone buzzes. “Weather advisory update. Storm system accelerating from the north. All flight plans require immediate review.”

My stomach drops as I pull up the radar. The storm that was safely north has shifted course directly into my path.