Page 1 of Mistletoe and Mayday
One
BAILEY
My Fairbanks layover plan involved coffee and ignoring humanity,notwrestling some billionaire's luggage while his face did an impressive impersonation of an angry eggplant.
Still, points for entertainment value after that cross-country flight to get here. Wonder if he'll hit “apoplectic plum” before security arrives?
The jammed luggage carousel groans under my grip as I wrestle with the stupid designer suitcase wedged between metal guards.
All I Want for Christmasblares through the terminal speakers for the millionth time today, and the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, each high note stabbing into my skull.
“Come on, you overpriced piece of shit.”
The entire luggage belt sits frozen while other passengers stand back, arms crossed, glaring at the red flashing light like it might fix everything. Common sense would tellme to join them. Common sense and I have never been on speaking terms.
I dig my heels in, giving the suitcase an aggressive yank. My hands slip while impatient travelers’ eyes bore into my back.
It’s like they’re all judging me, probably thinking,Who does this chick think she is?A problem solver, that’s who. The kind who can’t walk past a jammed door without trying the handle.
Mr. Designer Everything materializes beside me, vibrating with nervous energy. His impeccable suit hugs his athletic frame in all the right places. Annoyingly perfect cheekbones frame full lips currently pressed into a tight line. Dark hair styled just messy enough to look effortless.
Damn him for being exactly my type, wrapped in everything I can’t stand.
“I must insist you exercise appropriate caution,” he says, his tone so precise it feels rehearsed. That tone—the one people use when they’ve already decided I’m beneath them—makes my skin crawl.
The fluorescent lights already have my brain buzzing when he grabs my arm. Wrong move. My skin burns where he touches me.
Deep breaths, Bailey. Just like in therapy.
My blood pressure spikes, heart hammering against my ribs. My mind races through a million responses, none of them polite.
“Your cavalier attitude toward other people’s possessions is precisely what’s wrong with the current state of customer service,” he continues, voice dripping with condescension.
Those blue eyes—stormy and intense—would be captivating if they weren’t currently looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his expensive shoe.
“First,” I begin, pulling my arm free and ignoring the lingering warmth where his fingers touched, “you don’t get to touch me without permission. Second, if you think customer service is bad, try living in the real world where people aren’t wrapped in bubble wrap and handed everything on a silver platter.” My words come out sharp, but hey, he asked for it.
His eyes widen, probably not used to being talked back to. The gears turn behind those gorgeous blue eyes, recalibrating for someone who doesn’t cower at his polished demeanor. The entire scene feels almost surreal, like an obscene parody of a high society drama.
My brother’s voice echoes:“Count to ten, Bails.”
One. Christmas Eve dinner’s slipping away with each delay.
Two. His suit could pay off my car.
Three. The way he looks at me mirrors every man who’s ever questioned my right to a cockpit?—
Oh, screw counting.
Last Christmasstarts playing. The lights drill into my skull.
Too many people staring. And this guy. Keeps. Talking.
“Listen, Mr. Fancy Vocabulary,” I snap, because apparently we’re doing this, “I was trying tohelp. But sure, get it yourself. Good luck with that.”
His face hits purple level eight, veins popping while he fumbles with the suitcase, muttering about “uncouth behavior” and “standards of service” like he’s reciting a bad Yelp review.
I notice the way his forearms flex as he tugs at the suitcase. I wish I didn’t.
