Chapter 4
Four
BAILEY
Fifty-eight minutes until I can fire up the engines and leave this frozen hellscape behind.
My cargo plane’s fueled and waiting, departure slot secured thanks to a case of that craft beer Charlie in Air Traffic Control likes so much.
The weather radar on my phone shows a wall of blue and white bearing down on us. A storm that would’ve trapped me here through Christmas if I hadn’t sweet-talked my way into an early takeoff.
‘All I Want for Christmas’ plays for the fortieth time today, and I’m humming along because soon I’ll be home, eating Mom’s cookies, and nothing can ruin this—
My phone buzzes.
I stare at Jake’s name flashing on my screen like it’s a bomb about to detonate.
No. No way. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no,” I answer, zipping up my flight bag and tucking my weather charts into the side pocket.
I scan the nearly empty terminal through the windows, most flights already canceled as the storm approaches.
“I’ve filed my flight plan, completed all pre-flight checks, and I’m taking off before this storm blocks everyone in.”
“Bailey—”
“Nope, not listening.” As both my boss and the operations manager at Crosswind Logistics, Jake only uses that tone when he’s about to ruin my plans. “I’ve been dealing with rich people and their luggage all day. If you’re calling to mess up my plans, I swear—”
“I know it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” Jake says, his voice placating but firm. “But—”
“No.”
“Just listen.”
“Jake,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice but failing, “you do realize that if I miss this flight home, you owe me a year’s supply of sushi. Therapy wrapped in seaweed. That’s what you’ll owe me.”
“Bails. I need to ask you for—”
“No.”
“I need you to take someone with you.”
“No. There’s a reason I fly cargo, not people. Cargo doesn’t talk back or ask for peanuts.”
“I really need you to do this.”
“He can take another flight. There are plenty of airlines that cater to humans.”
“The last flight out is fully booked, and the storm is coming. He’s ready to pay. Big. We need the money, Bails.”
I grind my teeth, feeling the familiar prick of irritation in my scalp. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a swarm of bees, making my head throb.
“Who’s the cargo?” I mutter, already feeling my resolve crumbling like one of Mom’s overcooked cookies. Damn Jake and his ability to make me cave.
“Sebastian Lockhart,” Jake answers.
“Wait. The hotel empire guy?” I snort. “What’s wrong with his private jet? Did he scratch the gold plating?”
“No joke, Bails. He’s offering thirty grand.”
I blow out a breath. Thirty thousand reasons to say yes war with my burning desire to avoid another pompous suit who probably thinks Alaska is just a quaint little ice cube he can buy.
But that kind of money would fix my leaking roof, help Jake with his kid’s fancy school, and—who am I kidding—finally complete my collection of cheesy tourist snow globes.
I glance at the weather radar on my phone screen, pretending to study it while weighing my options. The bright green and red Christmas decorations in the airport seem to mock me with their cheerfulness.
“Fine,” I grumble, knowing there’s no escaping this. “But he better not complain about legroom or in-flight snacks.”
“Thanks, Bails. You’re a saint.”
“A saint who’s gonna need saintly levels of patience,” I mutter. “Where is he waiting?”
“Business lounge. The one with the fancy chairs and free booze.”
Of course. Where else would Hotel Royalty hang out? Not with us plebeians by the vending machines that eat your dollars and spit out nothing but disappointment and broken dreams.
I trudge toward the lounge, my boots squeaking on the polished floor like I’m announcing my arrival to the elite class. A woman in pearls actually clutches her designer bag closer as I walk by. Yeah, Lady, I’m totally going to steal your overpriced leather sack.
I glance down at my outfit. Faded jacket, cargo pants, and boots that have seen more miles than most cars. Okay. I do look like I’m about to steal something, not pick up a billionaire passenger.
My fingers toy with the zipper on my jacket. Up, down, up. Why am I even concerned about my appearance? He’s just a passenger. A pricey passenger, but still just a passenger.
The last small cluster of businesspeople gathers around their laptops, scheming for global takeover or whatever it is they do while waiting for their flight.
I survey the room, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. Making eye contact is draining on a good day, and today is far from good.
Where on earth is this guy?
“So, who here is Mr. Lockhart?”
A man in a tailored suit rises from a chair in the corner, his back to me at first. As he turns, my stomach performs an Olympic-level flip.
Holy shit. It’s him. The uptight language police from the luggage carousel.
Our eyes lock, and for a split second, I see the same shock register on his face before it hardens into something closer to resignation. His perfect posture stiffens even further, if that’s possible, like someone just replaced his spine with a steel rod.
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. The universe isn’t just laughing at me now, it’s doubled over, clutching its cosmic sides, tears streaming down its face. Because of course Mr. Perfect from the luggage carousel is Sebastian freaking Lockhart.
He seems different, though. Like all that snippy energy from earlier leaked right out of him. Gone is the guy who lectured me about handling protocols. In his place stands someone who looks like he just lost a fight with life itself.
Mom’s voice echoes in my head: “Sometimes people who act the meanest are hurting the most, honey.” Yeah, well, that doesn’t excuse being a jerk.
I could bolt. Right now. Turn around, text Jake that I caught the sudden onset plague, or spotted a yeti on the runway.
Lockhart’s eyes bore into mine. The bright blue has gone stormy, like Alaska’s winter sky before a blizzard. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something that looks like defeat. No snippy comment about my “cavalier attitude.” No lecture about professionalism. Just...silence.
Well, crap. Now I feel bad for him. I hate feeling bad for people who were mean to me. It messes with my whole righteous indignation vibe.
His face does that purple thing again.
“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head.
For once, I agree with him. My fingers find my jacket zipper again. Up, down, up, down.
“Trust me, I’m not thrilled either. But unless you want to stay in Alaska...”
His perfect hair is slightly messed up now, like he’s been running his hands through it.
“There must be another option.” His posh accent slips, revealing something raw underneath.
“Sure, there’s Santa’s sleigh, but I hear he’s booked solid tonight.” The joke falls flat. “Look, I get it. You’d rather eat glass than fly with the help. But I’m your only ticket out of here, or we wouldn’t be in this position, so...”
He flinches at that, and for a second, I see past the designer suit and fancy vocabulary to someone who’s having an even worse day than I am. Which is saying something, considering.
His phone buzzes. He glances at it, his jaw tightening, and I catch a glimpse of multiple missed calls from someone named “Rebecca.”
“Popular girl, this Rebecca.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightens. “If you’re the pilot, perhaps we should discuss the flight instead of my personal affairs.”
“Fine by me. Flight details: it’s gonna be cold, cramped, and completely lacking in caviar service.” I force a customer service smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Any questions?”
“Just one.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How is it possible that my only escape from this frozen hellscape is with the same woman who manhandled a ten-thousand-dollar suitcase like it was a discount store bag?”
“First, it was a five-thousand-dollar suitcase earlier. Inflation really hit hard in the past hour, huh? Second, do you want to leave Alaska tonight or not?”
He looks at his phone again as it buzzes with yet another call from Rebecca. Without breaking eye contact with me, he silences it.
“When do we leave?” His voice sounds hollow.
“Forty minutes. Just enough time for you to mentally prepare for slumming it with the commoners.”
“I’ll manage.”
His phone rings again. This time, the name “Mother” flashes on his screen. The look on his face is something between dread and resignation.
“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, immediately regretting it. Filter, Bailey. Filter.
“You have no idea.” He looks up, his expression unreadable. “Shall we go? I’d rather be in the air than continue this stimulating conversation.”
“Sure thing. Just don’t blame me when you realize how uncomfortable those fancy shoes and suit are in a cargo plane—”
“I assure you, I can handle discomfort better than you might expect.”
“Is that right? Because you strike me as someone who’s never experienced anything uncomfortable without having someone fix it immediately.”
“I climb mountains, actually.” His voice has that edge again, but there’s something different about it now. Less snobby, more... Defensive?
“Climbing the corporate ladder doesn’t count.”
For a half-second, I swear something like amusement flickers in his eyes before it’s swallowed by that stormy blue again.
“I have hiking boots in my luggage. Would that satisfy your concern for my comfort?”
“Whatever. It’s your feet that’ll be cramping, not mine.”
We head toward the exit, maintaining a careful distance between us like opposing magnets. The Christmas music follows us, now blaring “Let It Snow” while actual snow builds up outside, threatening to trap us both here if we don’t hurry.
His phone buzzes again. Rebecca, again. He ignores it. Again.
“Whoever she is,” I say, staring straight ahead, “she’s persistent.”
“She’s nothing.” His voice has a finality to it that raises the hairs on my neck.
“Wow, that wasn’t ominous at all. Should I be worried you’re running from the law or something? Because I draw the line at harboring fugitives, even for thirty grand.”
“Let’s just say I’ve learned that loyalty is a commodity some people can’t afford.”
The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard.
Just what I need. A rich guy running away from relationship drama on Christmas Eve.
Let me guess: he cheated on some poor woman, got caught, and now he’s fleeing the scene like the privileged coward he clearly is. Classic billionaire behavior.
“We should go,” I say. “The storm won’t wait for us.”