Chapter 7
Seven
BAILEY
Rule number one of emergency landings: keep the rich guy from having a meltdown.
Rule number two: Don’t mention that his designer suit is now covered in my cookie crumbs.
Rule number three: Maybe stop making rules and figure out why smoke is coming from the engine before we both freeze to death in this winter wonderland.
Snow drifts down on the windshield. The cabin reeks of burned rubber and pine trees. My hands move through the familiar motions. Checking gauges, testing controls, scanning for sparks or leaks. The routine keeps my brain from spinning out.
No fire. Good start.
No fuel leaks. Even better.
Passenger still breathing. Debatable if that’s a win.
My fingers find Vegas, my lucky snow globe, somehow wedged between the seats. The tiny plastic dancers still twirl in their glittery snow, unfazed by our dramatic landing. At least someone’s having a good time.
Mr. Perfect hasn’t moved or spoken since I told him about the uncertain rescue. He just...stares. At nothing. His perfect hair sticks up at odd angles, his perfect suit wrinkles in all the wrong places, and there’s a cookie crumb on his collar. The silence makes my skin crawl.
“You know,” I say, because apparently near-death experiences don’t cure verbal diarrhea, “for someone who just survived a crash landing, you’re taking this remarkably well.”
His head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. If looks could kill, I’d be a Bailey-flavored popsicle right now.
“Or not.” I backtrack, fidgeting with my snow globe. “We’ll just sit here in silence, then. Like frozen statues. Fun.”
The radio’s silence mocks me as I press every button for the hundredth time. Static hisses and pops, setting my teeth on edge. At least the emergency beacon keeps beeping away, like a tiny electronic heartbeat saying, “Not dead yet, not dead yet.”
“Help will come,” I say, trying to inject some cheerfulness into my voice. “Eventually.”
Mr. Perfect maintains his impression of an ice sculpture. The only sign he’s alive is the slight tremor in his hands.
The temperature’s dropping fast. I can see my breath now, little puffs of white in the dimming light.
“Um, you might want to put on something warmer.” I gesture at his fancy suit, which costs more than my flight school tuition. “Your suit isn’t Alaska-in-winter appropriate. Unless you’re going for the frozen CEO look.”
I pull the emergency kit from its compartment beneath my seat. The familiar red box with its faded white cross has seen better days, but what’s inside matters most. I snap open the latches and inventory our survival chances.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” My hands rummage through the contents.
“Two flashlights—one’s got a crack but still works.
Emergency flares. First aid kit. Space blankets.
Some protein bars that expired... Well, let’s not look at the date.
And—ah!” I pull out a massive orange jacket that makes me look like a traffic cone.
“This should fit even over your fancy suit.”
The jacket unfolds like a neon parachute, its reflective stripes catching what little light remains in the cabin. It’s at least two sizes too big for me, designed to fit over bulky winter clothing or, in this case, a very expensive suit.
“Here.” I toss it to him. “It’s not Armani, but it beats hypothermia.”
He holds it like it might bite him. “This is...very orange.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the point of emergency gear. Being visible. You know, so rescue teams can find us before we become fancy ice sculptures?”
Reaching behind my seat, I grab my coat. Thick and puffy. Perfect for not dying in Alaska. The synthetic fabric makes that swishy noise I hate, but right now it’s better than the crushing silence. The thick gloves slide over my frozen fingers, the leather rough against my skin.
I grab the larger of the two flashlights and test it. The beam cuts through the dim cabin, steady and bright. Good. The spare goes into my pack along with the protein bars and a handful of chemical heat packs.
Everything we’ll need if the rescue takes longer than expected. Or if the storm gets worse. Or if bears—no, don’t think about bears.
The plane creaks, metal contracting in the cold. My teeth chatter. The smoke smell burns my nose, the wind howls through the cracks, and somewhere in the distance, a bird screams.
I need to move. Need to do something before my brain short-circuits.
“Look,” I say, flicking on the flashlight, “you can stay here and judge my fashion choices, or you can help me figure out why there’s smoke coming from the engine. Your call.”
He pulls on the orange jacket with a grimace that almost makes me laugh. Almost. “I assume you have a plan beyond ‘stare at the smoking thing’?”
“Always. Step one: don’t die. Step two: figure out steps three through ten.”
The cold hits like a slap when I crack open the door. Snow swirls in, catching in my eyelashes, making everything blur. Mr. Perfect stands behind me, so close that his fancy cologne mixes with the smoke and pine needles.
“Stay close,” I tell him, “and watch your step.”
The ground looks a lot further away from up here. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat, a sharp reminder of our less-than-graceful landing.
The snow swirls up, making everything seem soft and fluffy. I know better. There’s probably ice under there, waiting to make this whole situation even more fun.
“Allow me to assist,” Mr. Perfect says, reaching for my arm. His cologne wafts up.
I jerk away from his touch, but that only makes it worse because now I’m breathing deeper and catching more of that stupidly expensive scent.
It’s not fair that someone this annoying should smell like...like...whatever that is. Cedar maybe? Something woodsy and warm that makes my brain fuzzy in ways I don’t want to examine right now.
“I can manage,” I snap. But my sensory system is already in overdrive from the crash. Adding his proximity and that scent that’s making my stomach do weird flips… Nope. Not happening. “I do this all the time.”
“Your ankle is clearly injured.”
“And your attitude is clearly annoying, yet here we are.”
I take a deep breath and push off, aiming to land on my good leg. Physics has other ideas. The impact jolts through my injured ankle, and the world goes white at the edges. I bite down hard on my lip, but at least I don’t scream.
The snow soaks through my pants as I struggle to stay upright. Each heartbeat sends fresh waves of pain shooting up my leg. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t throw up on Mr. Perfect’s expensive shoes.
Mr. Perfect lands next to me with infuriating grace, like some kind of runway model doing a snow photoshoot. His perfect face scrunches with what looks like actual concern. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” My voice comes out tight, like I’m trying to strangle the pain with my vocal cords. The snow seeps further into my pants, numbing everything. Small mercies.
He reaches toward me, all proper gentleman-like. “I can help—”
“Don’t need your help.” I wave him off, probably looking like a drunk penguin trying to dance. “Just stay here.”
The snow crunches under my boots as I limp toward the engine, each step sending fresh jolts of pain up my leg. My teeth chatter from more than just the cold.
The adrenaline crash is hitting hard, making my hands shake as I shine the flashlight over the damage.
“Oh, that’s not good.” The engine housing is crumpled like a crushed soda can, with bits of metal scattered across the pristine snow, and there’s a concerning dark puddle spreading underneath.
The wind whips my hair into my face as I wade through knee-deep snow, circling the plane. My mental checklist grows longer with each discovery. Cracked stabilizer. Missing...something important-looking.
The cold bites through my gloves as I touch each damaged section, mapping out our situation.
Mr. Perfect stands where I left him, radiating disapproval like a space heater of judgment. Just keeps staring at me with those stormy blue eyes like I’m personally responsible for ruining his evening. Which, okay, technically I am, but still.
At least nothing’s on fire. Yet. And hey, all the important bits are mostly attached. Sort of. I’ve seen worse. Well, in training videos. And that one time in Texas with the geese, but we don’t talk about that.
The wind picks up, howling through the trees and sending snow swirling around us in mini tornadoes. Great. Because this situation really needed more drama.
I squint at the darkening sky, where thick clouds roll in like waves of smoke. The temperature’s dropping faster now. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my breath crystallizes.
“So...good news and bad news.” I limp back to where Mr. Perfect stands, still looking like an orange traffic cone had a baby with a GQ model.
“Good news is the plane didn’t explode. Bad news is it’s not going anywhere.
That engine’s completely shot, and there’s damage to the—” I catch his glazed expression.
“Never mind the technical stuff. Point is, we’re grounded. ”
He blinks, like he’s processing in dial-up. “Surely they’ll send help.”
“In case you missed the weather memo, nobody’s flying in this mess. Not even rescue choppers. And with the engines out, this plane’s going to turn into a freezer real quick.” I gesture toward the crumpled metal. “No power means no heat.”
I shift my weight off my throbbing ankle, leaning against the plane’s cold metal. The wind whips snow into my face, making my eyes water.
“Okay, Mr. Perfect, here’s the situation.
” My hands move as I talk. “We’ve got about six hours of daylight left.
Emergency services know our location, but this storm’s making search and rescue impossible until it clears.
We have supplies for three days, assuming you’re willing to eat commoner food. ”
His perfect jawline tightens. Snow catches in his dark hair, making him look almost human. Almost.
“The good news is—”