Chapter 5
Five
BAILEY
His blood-drained face tells me everything I need to know. Billionaire Sebastian Lockhart has never flown in anything other than a luxury private jet.
Good. Let him squirm in my stripped-down cargo plane while we climb through turbulence that rattles the rivets. The way he flinches at each move I make almost makes the thirty grand worth it.
The thing about small cargo planes is there’s nowhere to hide. No plush leather seats or champagne service. No polished mahogany tables. Just two cramped seats in a cockpit designed for function, not comfort, and a cargo hold that smells faintly of fish from yesterday’s delivery.
Mr. Perfect keeps checking his Rolex every ninety seconds, like it might speed up time. His jaw could cut glass—which, annoyingly, matches the rest of his sharp features. The whole package screams, “I summer in the Hamptons and winter in Aspen and judge people who can’t tell cabernet from merlot.”
His eyes have this crazy shade of blue, like storm clouds right before lightning strikes. Which is fitting, since he looks ready to electrocute me every time I tap my fingers on the controls. Not that I’m looking. I’m definitely not looking. I’m a professional pilot.
But seriously, who has eyes that color? It’s unfair. Like the universe went, “Here’s your perfect bone structure and expensive everything, and oh yeah, here are some eyes that’ll make people forget how to talk.”
Good thing I never forget how to talk. Ever. Even when I should.
“The weather report showed clear skies until midnight.” His crisp voice breaks our twenty-minute silence. “Yet I see storm clouds ahead.”
“Weather changes.” I adjust our heading by two degrees, compensating for crosswinds. “Especially in Alaska.”
“Is that...safe?” The way he says “safe” makes it sound like he’s asking if I plan to land on an active volcano.
“Safer than staying in that airport with Rebecca blowing up your phone.” I shouldn’t have said that. Filter, Bailey. Filter.
His posture stiffens. “You know nothing about my personal affairs.”
“I know you’re running from something. Or someone.” My mouth keeps going while my brain screams to stop. “People don’t pay thirty grand for cargo flights unless they’re desperate.”
“I’m not—” He stops himself, jaw working. “My reasons for travel are none of your concern.”
I catch him watching me pre-flight check the instruments. His lips press into a thin line every time I touch something. Like I might break his precious air with my common hands.
“I assure you, I’m qualified to fly this thing,” I say. “They don’t just hand out licenses in cereal boxes.”
“I didn’t say anything.” His voice stays measured, controlled. It makes me want to mess up his perfect hair just to see what happens.
Which is not a thought I should have about someone this irritating. Even if his stupid designer stubble catches the light just right when he turns to stare out the window. Even if his hands are... No. Nope. Not going there.
The radar screen flashes angry red and yellow. The storm system’s moving faster than predicted, because, of course, it is. Nothing like a Christmas Eve blizzard to bring out that holiday spirit.
“We need to get moving.” I start the pre-flight sequence. “Unless you’d rather spend Christmas in the world’s most depressing airport hotel.”
I pull my lucky Las Vegas snow globe from my flight bag, setting it on the dashboard. The tiny plastic casino dancers shake in their glittery storm.
“Is that a snow globe?” His voice drips with the kind of judgment usually reserved for people who put ketchup on filet mignon.
“No, it’s a sophisticated navigation device. Latest technology.” I tap it twice. “When the dancers face north, we’re good to go.”
His reflection in the cockpit window shows that perfect jaw clenching again. “You cannot be serious.”
I grab my bag of chocolate chip cookies—the good kind, with the chunks bigger than my thumbnail—and crinkle the wrapper. “I’m never serious. It ruins my complexion.”
“This is highly irregular.” He shifts in his seat, probably worried my unprofessionalism might be contagious. “I must insist—”
“You must insist nothing.” My fingers tap against the controls again, a rhythm that helps keep my thoughts straight when people use words like “must” and “irregular.”
“My plane, my rules. Snow globe stays.”
“So your meteorological expertise consists of...a tourist trinket.” The ice in his voice could freeze the sun. “I’m beginning to question the wisdom of this arrangement.”
“Feel free to get out and walk to LA.” I gesture to the emergency exit. “I’d hate to inconvenience you with my lack of sophistication.”
“I’m merely suggesting that perhaps a more professional approach—”
“And I’m merely suggesting you stop backseat flying before I send you back to join the cargo.”
The plane vibrates as we climb through the clouds, metal groaning against the wind. Altitude, heading, engine readings. All good. The snow globe dancers wobble in their plastic dome.
Sebastian white-knuckles the armrests every time we hit a patch of turbulence. His perfect posture cracks, shoulders hunching forward with each bump. The clouds outside glow orange from the setting sun, making his face look almost human.
My leg bounces against the seat. The silence feels like static electricity building up under my skin. I hate silence. It makes my brain too loud.
“So...rough night?”
His head snaps toward me, those blue eyes going Arctic cold. “I don’t discuss personal matters with...service providers.”
The cookie bag crinkles in my grip. “Wow. And here I was going to share my cookies with you. Service provider? Really? That’s how we’re playing this?”
It’s good to remember why I prefer planes to people.
“For thirty thousand dollars, I expected a certain level of—”
A grinding noise cuts through the cockpit, metal on metal, definitely not part of the engine’s usual symphony.
I freeze.
The grinding noise comes again, sharper this time. Like someone’s taking a cheese grater to my baby’s insides. My stomach drops faster than our altitude.
“What was that?” Sebastian’s perfect pronunciation slips, his voice going up an octave.
I ignore him, focusing on the gauges. Oil pressure’s dropping. Not good. The snow globe dancers shake harder than usual, their glitter swirling in angry patterns.
Another metal screech. The stick shudders in my hands.
“I asked you a question!” His composure shatters. “What is happening?”
“Shhh!” My fingers dance across the controls, checking, testing, confirming what I already know. “I need to concentrate.”
The engine coughs. Once. Twice. The rhythm’s all wrong, like a drummer losing the beat.
“Are we going to crash?” The word “crash” catches in his throat like he can’t fully form it.
“I need you to shut up and let me focus.”
The words come out harsher than intended, but I can’t waste brain space on being nice right now. Something’s very wrong with my plane, and if Mr. Perfect wants to live to complain about my unprofessionalism another day, he needs to let me work.
The radio mic feels slick in my sweaty palm. My other hand stays locked on the controls, compensating for each shudder. The emergency frequency crackles with static that sets my teeth on edge.
“Mayday, mayday. This is flight B-177. We’re experiencing engine trouble.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Years of training kicking in, pushing past the panic trying to claw up my throat.
Static hisses back at me. One second. Two seconds. Each moment of silence makes my skin crawl.
“B-177, this is Anchorage Center. State your position and nature of emergency.”
“Anchorage, B-177. Position sixty-three degrees north, one-four-seven west. Port engine failure, starboard showing critical oil pressure drop. Requesting immediate vectors for emergency landing.”
“B-177, copy engine failures. The nearest suitable airfield is Fairbanks International, one-nine-five nautical miles from your position.”
“Negative, Anchorage. We won’t make Fairbanks. Oil pressure dropping, altitude seven thousand, and unable to maintain. Need something closer.” My knuckles turn white on the controls as the plane shudders again.
The radio crackles with murmured conversation before the controller returns.
“B-177. There’s an abandoned strip about forty miles from your position.
Bearing one-three-five. Not in service, no tower, no facilities.
Likely covered in snow. No guarantees on runway condition. It’s your only option within range.”
“Copy that, Anchorage. We’ll take it.” I bank the plane toward the coordinates, fighting the stick that keeps trying to pull right. “Any chance of emergency services?”
“Negative, B-177. Nearest rescue is Fairbanks, and the storm’s grounding all flights. You’ll be on your own until morning, at least.”
Perfect. Stranded in the wilderness with Mr. Money. This Christmas keeps getting better.
“Copy that, Tower.” The stick vibrates under my hands as I bank us into a slow turn. “B-177 turning to heading one-three-five. Current altitude seven thousand, descending to maintain airspeed with single engine.”
Sebastian makes a strangled noise beside me. I ignore him. Numbers now. Protocols. Everything else can wait.
“Tower, requesting weather conditions at landing site.”
“B-177, be advised: heavy snow, visibility three miles, winds gusting to twenty-five knots.”
Perfect. Because this night needed more complications.
“Copy conditions. B-177 maintaining heading one-three-five, descending through six thousand feet. Will advise on final approach.”
Next to me, Sebastian’s gone statue-still. The kind of stillness that means someone’s either passed out or about to lose it. I don’t have time to check which.
“Are we going to die?” His voice has lost all its polish.
“Not on my watch. But you might want to hold on to something.” I glance over, my hands steady on the controls even as my stomach twists.
The man who’d been so quick to judge my snow globe now looks small. His perfect suit wrinkled where he grips the armrests. My lucky Las Vegas dancers shake harder in their dome, glitter swirling like a sandstorm.
My leg bounces against the seat again, but not from nerves—it’s helping me think, keeping rhythm with the engine’s dying coughs. Each grinding sound matches a new calculation: altitude, wind speed, angle of descent.
Numbers dance through my head, a familiar pattern that drowns out everything else. Even Sebastian’s ragged breathing fades to background noise.
The controls fight me, the stick shuddering like it’s trying to break free. But I know this plane better than I know most people. Every rattle has a meaning, every shiver tells a story. Right now, she’s telling me we’re running out of time.
“I mean it about holding on.” My fingers tighten on the yoke. “This next part’s going to suck.”
The trees below look like jagged teeth in the fading light. The engine makes another dying sound—not a cough this time, more like a wheeze. Where’s that clearing?
“There’s the runway.” I squint through the windshield at the snow-covered strip barely visible in the darkening landscape. “Hope you didn’t check any luggage, because this is our stop.”
“That’s not a runway.” Sebastian’s voice cracks. “That’s a white rectangle in the middle of nowhere.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I fight to keep us level as the last engine sputters. “Think of it as the wilderness package your luxury hotel doesn’t offer.”
I’ve practiced emergency landings hundreds of times in simulators. None of them had Christmas music playing in the background.
The snow in the clearing sparkles like diamond dust. Pretty, until you remember snow means ice, and ice means... Well, better not think about that right now.
Sebastian’s breathing sounds like he’s trying to hyperventilate in perfect rhythm. His knuckles have gone white where they grip the armrests.
Brace for impact sounds too dramatic. And we’re going to have an unscheduled meeting with the ground seems too flippant. Even I know when not to joke.
The clearing appears through the clouds. Snow-covered, small, but it’ll have to do.
“Hey, Mr. Perfect?” My voice stays light despite the death grip I have on the controls.
“Yes?” The word comes out strained, like it had to fight past his clenched jaw.
“Remember how you hated my humming?”
“Yes?”
I push the yoke forward, aiming for the least tree-filled spot in the clearing.
“You’re going to hate this landing a lot more.”