Chapter 6
Six
SEBASTIAN
The plane lurches sideways, and my stomach follows. Through the windshield, snow-covered trees rush up to meet us at a speed no human could survive. My hands grip the armrests until my knuckles turn white.
“Come on, hold together,” Bailey mutters to the plane, her hands dancing over controls I don’t understand. The entire cabin vibrates. Her usual rambling has transformed into clipped, technical muttering.
“Altitude dropping. Flaps at fifteen. Come on, come on,” she speaks to the plane like it’s alive.
“This is fine,” she says, eyes locked on the instruments. “This is totally fine.”
Her tone makes it clear nothing is fine. Yet her hands remain steady, adjusting knobs and levers while I sit here, useless.
I close my eyes. The ring box digs into my hip where I shoved it in my pocket. The irony burns. I came to Alaska to give Rebecca the perfect fairy tale, and instead, I’m about to die in a cargo plane with a pilot who thinks snow globes are aviation equipment.
I find myself fixated on the way she keeps glancing at that ridiculous snow globe between instrument checks. The plane shudders again. A cookie flies past my head.
“Want one?” she asks, somehow steering with one hand while offering me her snack bag with the other. “Sugar helps with terror.”
I stare at her. “We’re about to die, and you’re offering cookies?”
She shrugs. “We’re not about to die. And if we were, do you really want your last meal to be nothing?”
If anyone had told me this morning, I’d prefer finding my girlfriend in bed with another man to my current situation, I would have questioned their sanity. Yet here I am, hurtling toward the ground in a metal coffin piloted by a woman who just offered me cookies while we plummet to our deaths.
The altimeter’s spinning numbers blur into a red smear. Each tick downward matches my heartbeat, a countdown to impact I can’t look away from. Until Bailey’s voice cuts through my spiral.
“Brace position.”
The playful pilot from moments ago vanishes. Her voice carries the kind of authority that bypasses thought and goes straight to action.
“Head down, arms behind your neck.”
I follow her instructions, my suit creasing as I fold into the crash position. My last glimpse before tucking my head shows a wall of evergreens rushing toward us, their snow-covered branches reaching up like hungry fingers.
“Any last words?” The question floats from the pilot’s seat. “Besides, ‘I should have eaten the cookies’?”
My forehead presses against my knees, and I mumble, “Should have checked before coming to Alaska.” Should have checked the hotel. Should have checked her story. Should have checked everything.
The plane slams into something solid. My body lurches forward until the seatbelt snaps tight, digging into my collarbone and ribs. My jaw locks shut with such force that pain explodes through my skull.
The windshield fills with white, then green, then white again as we careen through the trees. Metal screams against wood. My vision fractures into kaleidoscope fragments—instrument panel, Bailey’s hands, swirling snow.
A sharp crack pierces the air, like a gunshot, but deeper. Metal groans. The snow globe rolls past my feet.
My body moves before my brain fully registers what's happening. One moment, I'm frozen in the crash position, the next, I'm lunging across the small space toward Bailey as the plane settles with a sickening crunch.
“Get down!” I shout, throwing myself half over the pilot's seat, one arm instinctively shielding her head as something heavy slams into the fuselage above us. The impact sends vibrations through the metal frame, and a shower of snow cascades over the windshield.
Bailey stiffens beneath my makeshift protection. Her green eyes widen, not with fear but surprise. For a split second, I'm close enough to see gold flecks in her irises and smell something faintly cinnamon beneath the acrid scent of electrical burn.
The world stops spinning with a final shudder. My ears ring in the sudden silence, broken only by the tick-tick-tick of cooling metal. I’m still folded, muscles locked so tight they’re cramping.
“Uh, what are you doing?” She sounds more confused than grateful.
I realize my position—practically sprawled across her, one hand gripping the back of her seat, the other curved protectively around her shoulders. The crisis moment has passed, and I'm still hovering over her like some ridiculous action hero.
“I was...protecting you.” The words sound foolish even as I say them.
Bailey raises an eyebrow. “From a plane crash?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Instinct.”
“Well, you can get off me now, Prince Charming,” Bailey says. “Unless you're really attached to that position. I mean, it does wonders for the core muscles.”
I straighten, wincing at the protest in my neck. Every breath feels like sandpaper in my throat, but I’m breathing. We’re breathing.
“We...” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “We survived.”
“Of course we did.” Bailey unbuckles her harness, checking instruments. “I told you, lucky snow globe.” She pauses, glancing around the tilted cabin. “Which is...somewhere.”
The reality of our situation sinks in. We’re alive, yes, but we’re also stranded. In Alaska. In winter.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest. High-pitched and slightly hysterical. Bailey turns to me, eyebrows raised.
“You actually landed this thing,” I say, caught between disbelief and that edge of hysteria. “In a forest. At night. In a snowstorm. You saved us.”
She shrugs, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she runs them through her hair. “Yeah, well. Wasn’t about to let my perfect record of not dying get ruined by some stuck-up businessman who doesn’t appreciate cookies.”
I can’t stop laughing. The sound fills the tilted cabin, bouncing off the metal walls. My perfect suit is wrinkled beyond repair. There’s blood in my mouth from where I bit my cheek, and I’m certain my shoulder will be purple tomorrow, but I’m alive.
The relief hits like a wave, washing away the anger, the betrayal, even the embarrassment. My hands shake as I run them over my face, feeling the reality of warm skin and steady breathing.
“I can’t believe you did it.” The words come out between bursts of laughter. “You landed a failing plane in the middle of nowhere.”
Bailey continues checking instruments, but I catch her quick glance. “Are you having a mental breakdown? Because I only packed cookies for regular emergencies, not psychological ones.”
That makes me laugh harder. Here I am, Sebastian Lockhart, who spent four months planning the perfect proposal, who has color-coded his entire life, who never takes risks, sitting in a crashed plane with a pilot who packs emergency cookies and lucky snow globes.
The absurdity breaks something loose in my chest. The tight knot of control I’ve carried since childhood unravels with each laugh. I’m alive. I’m actually alive.
I pull my phone from my pocket, wincing at the movement. No signal. Not even one bar. I stand, raising it higher, turning in a slow circle.
“Come on,” I mutter, watching the signal indicator. Nothing. Just the mocking “No Service” message where my usual five bars should be.
Bailey’s cursing draws my attention. She’s got her own phone out, making the same desperate dance for reception. The screen’s glow catches the worried lines around her eyes before she masks them with that irritating smirk.
“Guess we’re not ordering pizza.” She tucks her phone away, turning to the radio. Her fingers move over the dials with practiced ease. “Tower, this is flight B-177. Do you copy?”
Static crackles through the cabin. She adjusts something, tries again. “Tower B-177, requesting confirmation of coordinates.”
More static. She hits the side of the radio with her palm. The sound cuts out completely.
“That’s...not good.” Her voice loses its playful edge. She fiddles with more switches, but the radio remains silent. “Must’ve gotten knocked around during landing.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Sure, if you have a complete radio repair kit in that fancy suit.” She pokes at something inside the console. “Though considering you didn’t even want cookies, I’m guessing emergency aviation tools aren’t your thing either.”
Each crackle of static emphasizes how utterly alone we are out here.
“I need to be in Chicago by Christmas.” My voice comes out sharp. “There are important matters that require my attention.”
Bailey’s hands are still on the radio. She turns, and something in her expression makes me want to step back.
“Important matters?” She crosses her arms. “Let me guess. Some fancy party where everyone compares their offshore accounts? Or maybe a board meeting to decide which small business to crush next?”
“That’s not—”
“Because clearly, your important, rich person things trump my plans to see my family for the first time in months.” Her voice rises. “God forbid the almighty Sebastian Lockhart misses his caviar Christmas while the rest of us peasants—”
“I apologize.”
The words surprise us both. She blinks, mouth still open mid-rant.
“I...” I run a hand through my hair. “I never meant to imply your plans were less important than mine. That was inconsiderate.”
Bailey stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Did you just...apologize?”
“I believe I did, yes.”
“To someone you consider beneath you?”
“I don’t think—” I stop, remembering how I spoke to her at the airport. How I assumed she worked there. How I treated her. I acted like an ass. No wonder she hates me.
“I’m in a difficult situation right now. Perhaps I’ve given that impression, but it wasn’t my intent.” The words feel inadequate.
My mind flashes to Rebecca’s face, to tangled sheets and stammered excuses. To another man wearing my cologne while in bed with my girlfriend. The ring box feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket. “And I’m not quite myself.”
Bailey’s expression shifts, that combative edge softening. She opens her mouth, probably to ask what kind of situation, but I hope she won’t. The humiliation is still too raw to voice aloud.
She studies my face, her usual rapid-fire commentary absent. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the wind whistling through some gap in the fuselage. Her green eyes narrow, like she’s solving a complex equation.
“Okay,” she says.
The simple acceptance throws me more than any argument could have. I open my mouth to defend myself further, then close it. The familiar urge to control the situation, to explain and justify, dies on my tongue.
Bailey stands, then grabs the back of her seat. A flash of pain crosses her face before she masks it.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She waves off my concern, but I catch the slight hitch in her movement. “Just bumped my leg during landing. No big deal.”
“That doesn’t look fine.”
She ignores me, checking something on her console. The lights flicker, casting shadows across her face.
“Where exactly are we?” I ask, trying to see anything through the snow-covered windows. “Is someone coming?”
“The tower has our coordinates from the emergency broadcast.” She taps the radio. “They know where we went down. Search and rescue will probably get us out of here in no time.”
“Probably?”
She shoots me a look. “Would you prefer I lie and say definitely?”
The silence between us seems different now. Less hostile, more...uncertain.
“We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Bailey looks at me, her expression unreadable. “Welcome to the world’s worst Christmas Eve, Mr. Lockhart.”