Chapter 11
Eleven
BAILEY
“The good news is we won’t die of starvation,” I say, rummaging through our scavenged supplies. “The bad news is we might wish we had after trying these beans from—” I squint at the faded label. “Holy shit, I think this can was manufactured before I was born.”
Pain shoots up from my ankle as I shift my weight. I white-knuckle the counter edge, balancing on my good leg. Every movement sends fresh daggers through my joints, but I keep exploring the kitchen, fingers trailing across the walls for support.
“You need to rest that leg,” Sebastian says for the millionth time, shadowing my movements, arms half-extended as if expecting me to topple.
“I need to not die of boredom.” I reach for another cupboard, wobbling as my leg trembles. “Besides, someone has to check our gourmet options.”
His warm fingers close around my elbow, steadying me. I ignore the heat spreading from his touch up my arm.
“I already cataloged everything while you were unconscious.” His voice is soft. “By expiration date.”
“Of course you did.” I grab the dustiest can I can find. “But did you appreciate the vintage? This one’s practically an antique. I think there’s rust growing on the rust."
Sebastian’s eye twitches when I thrust the can toward him. I catch him fighting against a smile.
“Welcome to Chez Wilderness,” I declare in a terrible French accent, punctuating it with a chef’s kiss. “Tonight’s special is...” I shake the can, wincing at the sound of liquid sloshing where there shouldn’t be any, “death by botulism with a side of desperation.”
I twist to reach my backpack, and lightning bolts shoot up from my ankle. I bite my cheek, refusing to show weakness. With a determined yank, I upend my pack onto the counter, spilling candy bars, trail mix, and emergency supplies across the dust-covered surface.
“Let’s see, we’ve got crackers, peanut butter, and—” I poke at a questionable foil packet “—something that might’ve been soup when dinosaurs roamed the earth.”
Sebastian leans closer, inspecting my haul. His cologne cuts through the cabin’s musty air. It’s not fair that after crashing in Alaska and being stranded in a blizzard, he still smells like he walked out of a luxury department store.
His proximity sends a rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with the fire. My body betrays me with a sudden awareness of every inch where we might touch if I just leaned back.
I inhale deeper, then freeze when I catch him watching me.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I pivot too quickly, and my injured ankle gives way. His hand catches my waist before I collapse, his palm burning through my thermal shirt. “Just checking if these beans are toxic. With my nose. Very scientific. Don’t they teach food science at fancy CEO school?”
Heat crawls up my neck. We’re standing too close.
I can count individual flecks of gold in his blue eyes, see the stubble darkening his jaw, smell his ridiculous cologne that shouldn’t work in a wilderness cabin but somehow make my stomach flip.
His breath warms my lips. My pulse hammers in my throat, and for a crazy second, I think he might kiss me. Worse. I want him to.
“Hey, look!” I push away from him. “I’ve got chocolate. And trail mix. We’re feasting at the Waldorf.”
I hop-stumble to the stove, dragging my foot behind me like a dead limb. I steady the ancient pot on the burner, water sloshing over the sides as I struggle to maintain my balance.
“The peanut butter’s salvageable once I scrape off the top layer, and the crackers only taste slightly like cardboard.”
Sebastian watches me work, eyebrows climbing higher with each hop and pivot. His expression screams surprise, like he can’t believe the chaos pilot knows her way around a kitchen. Those calculating eyes track my every movement, cataloging my competence like it’s some fascinating anomaly.
I ignore his stare, focusing on transforming our sad ingredients into something almost edible. What did he expect? That I survive on protein bars and airplane peanuts? I’ve lived alone since high school. Of course, I can cook. Not that there’s anything decent to cook here.
I arrange our pathetic meal on the lopsided table, adding a pinecone centerpiece with a flourish. “Dinner is served, Your Majesty.”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You mean resourceful. I even saved you the red M&M’s.”
Sebastian paces near the window, glaring at the storm outside. “There has to be a signal somewhere.”
“Trust me, they know where we went down.” I dunk a cracker into the peanut butter, hoping the sweet-salty combination might distract me from the throbbing that keeps time with my heartbeat. “But in this weather? No one’s flying in. We’d just end up with more people needing rescue.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
“You need proper medical attention. That leg...” He turns, fixing me with a stare so intense it steals my breath.
“If it’s not treated correctly, there could be permanent damage.
I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. ”
Something cracks in my chest. He’s worried. Not annoyed or inconvenienced—genuinely concerned. Mr. Perfect, whom I’ve done nothing but irritate since we met, looks like someone kicked his puppy.
I don’t know what to do with that. With any of it. With the way he’s looking at me, or how his cologne somehow still smells amazing after everything, or how my heart’s doing this weird stuttering thing.
“I...” My voice breaks. Smooth, Bailey. I clear my throat. “It’s fine. Just a bad sprain. I’ve had worse. This one time in Denver, I dislocated my—”
“Bailey.” Just my name, but something in how he says it makes me stop talking. That’s a first.
“I’m okay.” The words come out soft, stripped of my usual armor. “See.” I wiggle my toes, biting through my cheek. “All moving parts still functioning.”
His forehead creases with worry lines. Without his usual perfect composure, he looks more human. Less Mr. Perfect, more just...Sebastian. I think I like just Sebastian.
“You need to eat.” I push crackers toward him. “Can’t have you fainting on me. Who’d carry me through the snow then?”
His expression softens. “I thought you said you could walk.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I enjoy being carried.” The words escape before I can trap them.
Heat floods my face. “I mean—the crackers. Eat the crackers. To maintain your...carrying strength. For emergencies. Not that I want more emergencies. Or more carrying. I should have stopped talking five minutes ago.”
He picks up a cracker, which I count as a victory. The worry lines smooth slightly as he takes a bite.
“These aren’t terrible,” he admits, reaching for another.
“High praise from the man who has a chef on speed dial.”
“I don’t...” He pauses, something shuttering behind his eyes. “Not anymore.”
“Try the peanut butter,” I say, before he can retreat into whatever darkness I glimpsed. “It’s protein. Only slightly radioactive by now.”
I hop toward the woodpile, using the wall for balance. I need to do something, anything, to stop staring at Sebastian while he eats those crackers like they’re gourmet cuisine. The way his jaw moves when he chews, and I’m pretty sure that’s not a normal thing to notice about someone.
My hip bumps his pants hanging near the fire to dry. Something falls from the pocket, landing with a soft thud against my good foot.
A small velvet box.
My heart stops. My lungs forget how to work.
Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it.
The box feels heavier than it should as I bend to pick it up, warm from hanging near the flames. Sebastian remains at the table, spreading peanut butter on a cracker like he’s preparing hors d’oeuvres for royalty.
I shouldn’t open it. I really shouldn’t.
My thumb finds the catch.
The diamond inside is stunning. Classic, tasteful setting. Expensive. Exactly the kind of ring Mr. Perfect would choose.
Oh God.
He’s going to propose.
A strange hollow feeling spreads under my ribs. I shouldn’t care. We’ve known each other, what—two days? Three? Yet something twists inside me, sharp and unexpected. Since when do I care about Sebastian Lockhart’s relationship status?
This is ridiculous. So we shared some crackers and fought off hypothermia together. So what?
But I thought... What, exactly? That those lingering glances meant something? That the way his hand stayed at my waist a beat too long wasn’t just good manners? God, Bailey, get a grip. He’s just worried, that’s all.
Of course, he’s taken. He’s Sebastian Lockhart. He has a perfect girlfriend somewhere who doesn’t ramble about snow globes or make inappropriate jokes or get him stranded in the Alaskan wilderness with a bum leg.
He’s someone else’s Mr. Perfect. I’ve been sitting here daydreaming about his cologne while he’s been missing someone he loves.
Strange what isolation and survival will do to your brain chemistry. Making connections where there are none. Finding meaning in coincidence. Though it felt real enough when he caught me in the kitchen, his hands steady at my waist, his eyes dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second.
“What are you doing?” His voice makes me jump. The box almost slips from my fingers. He stares at the ring, then at me, his face transforming into something I’ve never seen before.
My mouth opens but produces no sound. The velvet box burns against my palm.
“That’s private.” His voice cuts through the air, arctic and sharp. All the warmth from our meal evaporates. He snatches the ring box from my hand before I can react.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“To pry? To stick your nose where it doesn’t belong? Like you do with everything?”
Each word lands like a slap. My chest constricts, ribs shrinking around my lungs. My fingers tingle, the world narrowing to pinpricks of sensation—the velvet against my skin, the cold seeping through the floor, the hurt flashing across his face. I’ve messed up.
“I just... It fell and I...” My voice shrinks, words dying in my throat. “Your pants... I shouldn’t have opened it. I know that. I know.”
Sebastian grabs his coat with quick, savage movements.
“Wait, I—”
The door slams with enough force to rattle the walls. Dust rains from the ceiling, dancing in the air like snow.
I hop toward the door. “Sebastian?” My voice cracks. The wind slaps snow against my face as I lean outside. “Sebastian, come on. I’m sorry!”
He’s already vanished, swallowed by swirling white. Fresh snow falls in thick curtains, erasing his tracks with terrifying speed.
My ankle buckles as I try to step outside. Pain rips through my foot, vicious and unyielding, forcing me back. I can’t follow him. Can’t explain. Can’t fix this.
The wind howls through the trees, stealing my voice as I call his name again.
I sit by the window, tracking the flaming dance of shadows on the wall. Minutes pass as I stare into the darkness beyond the glass, searching for movement, for any sign of him returning.
The storm grows fiercer, snow falling so thick now that I can barely see beyond the porch. What if he’s lost out there? What if he fell? What if he’s lying in a drift somewhere, getting colder by the minute?
I struggle to my feet again, leaning against the chair as I take my weight on one leg. My hand shakes as I pull the door open.
“Sebastian?” The wind devours my words. “This isn’t funny anymore!”
Nothing answers but howling wind and creaking trees.
I fight my way back to the window. The glass frosts over with my breath. I wipe it clear with my sleeve, pressing my forehead against the cold pane. The darkness between the trees looks deeper now, hungrier.
I’ve eaten all the emergency chocolate, even the red M&Ms I was saving for him. If he freezes to death out there, it’s my fault. Just another Bailey Monroe disaster.
“Sebastian?” I whisper against the glass.
Nothing but silence and snow.
Great job, Bailey. You’ve officially ruined Christmas and killed a CEO.