Chapter 8
Eight
SEBASTIAN
Sunset bleeds across the Alaskan horizon, giving us thirty minutes of light at most.
I’ve carried the weight of family expectations, corporate empires, and a perfect image my entire life, but none prepared me for carrying Bailey through knee-deep snow as death stalks us with every falling degree.
“Y–you know what’s funny?” Bailey mumbles against my neck, voice tight but fighting for lightness. “If I don’t make it home, my snow globe collection becomes my brother’s problem. He’ll hate that.”
My foot sinks deeper, past my ankle. These boots might as well be slippers for all the protection they offer. My legs are numb.
“Everyone’s getting home,” I say, my breath forming crystals in the air.
Her knuckles whiten around Vegas, that ridiculous snow globe she refuses to part with. A quiet hiss escapes through her teeth when my stride falters on hidden ice.
She thinks I don’t notice the way her jaw clenches, how she buries her face in my collar. The beads of sweat forming at her hairline despite the freezing temperatures.
The snow crunches under my feet, each step sinking deeper than the last. Her weight shifts as she adjusts her grip around my neck, and I readjust the gear bag hanging from my chest. The straps dig into my shoulders.
“You’re breathing like you’re running a marathon,” she says. “Need a break?”
“I’m fine.” The words rasp out between desperate gulps of air. My personal trainer would mock me. All those perfect form squats, and I’m defeated by carrying one small woman through the snow.
She weighs less than I expected. All that endless chatter and fearless bravado packed into such a slight frame. A smile threatens to form, then dies as Rebecca’s image flashes through my mind—tangled in sheets, stammering excuses. Another man inside her.
My foot catches something hidden beneath the snow. I pitch forward, momentum carrying us toward disaster. Bailey’s fingers dig into my shoulders. The gear bag swings, throwing me further off-balance.
“Sorry,” I mutter, though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing. Pure instinct. Be polite. Maintain appearance. Always have a plan.
Look how brilliantly that worked out.
My girlfriend’s sleeping with someone else. I’m stranded in Alaska. And I’m hauling an injured pilot who disguises her grimaces as smiles while critiquing my rescue technique.
The wind sharpens, driving ice crystals into my exposed skin. My thigh muscles burn with each step. Sweat freezes against my temple despite the plummeting temperature.
This is how my perfect proposal ends. Not with a diamond ring and happy tears, but freezing in nowhere with a woman who dislikes me.
Shadows stretch and deepen with each passing minute. The snow transforms from pristine white to blue, then an unsettling gray. Bailey trembles against my back.
Her hands, wrapped around my neck, grow colder. My fingers have lost all feeling inside leather gloves—completely impractical for this weather, just like everything else I packed for a proposal that will never happen.
“We’re not making it to the cabins before dark, are we?” The question hangs between us, stripped of her usual barbed edges. For the first time since we met, she sounds...vulnerable.
I adjust my grip on her legs, fighting to keep us steady as I navigate another drift. The snow reaches mid-thigh now. Each step demands more effort than the last. My tailored wool pants cling to my skin, wet fabric offering the protection of wet tissue paper. We need to get warm, fast.
The cabin looms ahead, a dark promise against the white expanse. Wind whips between skeletal trees, carrying ice shards that sting my face. Our destination blurs through the growing darkness and swirling snow.
I should lie. Say something reassuring. It’s what I’d do facing nervous investors across a conference table. But my usual polish feels as frozen as my feet.
“No,” I admit, the word crystallizing in front of my face. “We’re not.”
“We need shelter. Now.” Her voice hitches, the shivering impossible to hide now. She’s right—the temperature has dropped faster than our stock did during last quarter’s recession.
I scan our surroundings, but darkness melds everything into a shapeless shadow. The wind cuts through my clothes like they’re nothing. My muscles scream from carrying her. The cabin might as well be on another continent.
Then I spot it—a darker patch against the white, where rock juts out from snow. “There.”
Bailey shifts, trying to see over my shoulder. Her chest expands in a quick inhale.
“Oh good. We’re going to freeze to death in a cave like proper adventurers. Very Jack London of us.”
The rock wall curves inward, creating a space barely large enough for two people. Not the five-star accommodations I’m accustomed to, but it blocks the wind, and there’s no snow inside. My arms tremble as I lower her to the ground, muscles burning from exertion.
She slides off my shoulder without a sound, reaching for her pack. Her pallor alarms me, though that determined set to her jaw remains. The same look she wore during our crash landing.
Metallic crinkling fills our shelter as she unfolds what looks like a silver garbage bag. The material catches what little light remains, casting eerie shadows on the rock walls.
“Space blanket,” she explains, shaking it open. The foil-like material expands with a sound like distant thunder. “Only one because cargo pilots rarely host sleepovers.”
Her hands tremble as she clutches her ridiculous snow globe, the glitter inside swirling like the surrounding storm. The silver emergency blanket crinkles with each shiver. My teeth won’t stop chattering. I can’t feel my fingertips.
“So,” she says, voice wavering despite her attempt at casual bravado, “here’s the fun part. Two choices: share body heat and survive, or maintain personal space and freeze. I vote for survival, but you seem like the dying-with-dignity type.”
Cold bites through my wet pants. Her lips have turned an alarming shade of blue while she tries to make light of our situation. Her sharp edges dull under exhaustion and the constant tension in her body, though she still manages to insult me.
“Your survival instincts seem at war with your need to mock me at every opportunity.” The cold fractures my words into jagged pieces.
She hugs her snow globe closer. “I can mock you and save our lives. I excel at multitasking.”
A violent shiver racks her body. Her eyes close briefly, teeth catching her lower lip. The temperature plummets another degree. We’ll freeze without immediate action.
“Fine,” I say. “How do we do this?”
She unzips the emergency bag, her fingers clumsy with cold. Even in the dim light, I see how badly her hands shake.
“Just...no funny business,” she warns, though her chattering teeth undermine the threat.
“Trust me,” I manage through trembling lips, “that is the last thing on my mind.”
She digs through her pack, pulling out more supplies. “You have dry pants in that fancy bag?”
She produces a small LED flashlight, testing it with shaking hands. The beam cuts through the darkness, throwing harsh shadows against rock walls. Something about the bouncing light makes our space feel smaller, more confined.
I nod, grateful I packed a change of clothes. Wet wool clings to my legs as I peel it off, modesty irrelevant now. Survival trumps social niceties.
“Nice ass, Mr. CEO,” she quips through chattering teeth. “Corporate life clearly includes squat day.”
“Enjoying the view?” My numb fingers fumble with my bag’s zipper, but I extract a pair of dry slacks.
“Sorry. Just making an objective observation,” she adds, her eyes darting away. “Not like there’s anything else to look at in this five-star rock accommodation.”
She pauses. “I’m keeping the flashlight on,” she says, propping it against her snow globe, aiming the beam toward the entrance. Her voice tightens. “In case any furry visitors want shelter, too.”
I glance at the narrow opening, remembering wilderness documentaries. Bears. Wolves. Mountain lions. The beam seems inadequate against such threats, but I nod anyway. The light offers strange comfort, even as it makes shadows dance in unsettling patterns.
She crawls inside the sleeping bag, silver material rustling with each movement. A small gasp of pain escapes her as she adjusts her injured leg, knuckles whitening as she grips the bag’s edge.
Getting both of us into this emergency sleeping bag demands coordination I haven’t needed since Harvard rowing days.
“Your elbow’s in my kidney,” she hisses, squirming to adjust.
“If you’d stop moving for two seconds—” My knee bumps against her leg, and she inhales sharply.
“Do that again and I’ll ensure yours will hurt more.”
She shifts again, seeking a comfortable position. Her hair brushes my chin. Vanilla and cinnamon fill my nose, unexpectedly pleasant.
“Stop squirming,” I say through gritted teeth, unsure if they’re clenched from cold or frustration.
After an eternity of awkward adjustments, we achieve something approaching comfort.
She presses against my chest, her back fitting against me in ways I refuse to contemplate.
Our shivering subsides as shared body heat fills the sleeping bag.
I grow aware of every point where we touch.
She’s soft despite her thorny personality, and that vanilla scent makes maintaining detachment nearly impossible.
Her muscles remain rigid against mine, coiled tight like she might bolt despite her injury.
“This is weird,” she mumbles, words muffled by the sleeping bag. Yet despite her complaint, she presses closer, seeking warmth. The movement sends another wave of vanilla my way. I force my attention to the howling wind outside instead of how perfectly she fits against me.
“Would you prefer hypothermia?” I keep my voice neutral, though it’s harder than usual with her this close.
“Ask me tomorrow.” Her teeth stop chattering, though occasional tremors still pulse through her body.
I close my eyes against the exhaustion.