Page 35 of Mistletoe and Mayday
First priority: fire. Second: food. Focus on what I can control, not what I can’t.
The wood stove protests with metallic complaint as I adjust the damper. Rust flakes onto my fingers, but the kindling catches. Small flames dance across dry bark, hesitant at first, then growing bolder. I add smaller logs, watching the fire spread. Warmth floods the cabin, bathing everything in amber light.
Kitchen cupboards contain a surprising bounty. Canned beans, corn, dried meat that appears recent. At least we won’tstarve, or I won’t while waiting for her to wake. If she wakes. No—when she wakes. I refuse to consider alternatives.
I silently thank whatever responsible hunter stocked these provisions. Bailey would mock my gratitude for canned beans. Make some cutting remark about my usual billionaire palate. I can almost hear her. “Wow, Mr. Perfect’s eating commoner food? Alert the press.”
Bailey shifts beneath her blanket, turning her face toward the heat. “Extended warranty... Blizzards...” she mumbles, fingers tightening around Vegas. A strand of hair falls across her face, and I resist the inexplicable urge to brush it away.
The firelight softens her features, casting shadows that dance across her skin.
She’s gorgeous. Not the manufactured perfection I’m accustomed to, but something raw, untamed. Wild. My fingers itch to trace the curve of her jaw, to discover if her skin is as soft as it looks.
Heat spreads through my chest, unwelcome and unsettling. This woman drives me mad with her chaotic energy, her inappropriate comments, her complete disregard for social boundaries. Yet here I sit, watching her breathe, fighting the urge to brush that strand of hair from her face.
She shifts, and I look away. Caught in something forbidden. My body responds to her in ways I refuse to acknowledge. Ridiculous. But watching her sleep feels like crossing a boundary. Like stealing glimpses of the real Bailey beneath all that chaos, a version she keeps hidden from the world.
I check my phone again, though I know what I’ll find. No signal. Not even a single bar. The wallpaper shows Rebecca and me at last month’s charity gala, wearing smiles. I expect anger. Betrayal. Heartbreak. But I feel nothing. Numb.
My thumb hovers over Rebecca’s contact. Who would carethat I’m missing? Mother would mourn the lost wedding announcement opportunity. Father would calculate the PR implications. Rebecca... Would she even notice? Or is she too occupied with?—
Bailey makes a small sound, something between a whimper and a word.
I should plan our next steps. Calculating supplies. Assessing options. Instead, I count her breaths.
My phone dies with a quiet beep. The screen goes black, taking Rebecca’s perfect smile with it.
I check Bailey’s pulse again. Her wrist seems fragile beneath my fingers, cold. Too cold. I pile another blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders.
No one knows I’m here. No one’s searching. I could vanish, and the world would continue turning.
My legs shake with each step, muscles screaming from carrying Bailey through waist-deep snow. The fire’s warmth only emphasizes my bone-deep exhaustion, how close I am to collapse. But I can’t rest. Not yet.
Her skin appears too pale, her breathing too shallow.
“Bailey?” My voice sounds foreign in the quiet cabin. No response. “Don’t you dare…” I tell her. “I didn’t carry you through a blizzard just to have you...” I can’t finish the sentence.
I slump against the wall beside the bed, fighting to keep my eyes open. The fire needs attention. Her bandages need changing. Her pulse needs monitoring. But my body refuses to cooperate, won’t move, won’t respond to my commands.
How long since I’ve slept? Since the hotel? Since discovering Rebecca?—
No. Focus. Check her breathing. Count seconds between her breaths. One...two...three...
My head drops forward, jerking me awake. Must move. Must...
Check her pulse again. Still steady. Still present.
Vegas glints in dying firelight. Las Vegas lights trapped in glass, waiting for someone to shake them back to life. Like her.
Another head drop.
Don’t fall asleep.
A soft sound penetrates my fog. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and confused. She tries to sit up, then gasps, face contorting in pain.
“Don’t move.” I’m at her side in an instant, one hand on her shoulder. “Your leg?—”
“Where—” Her voice cracks, dry from hours of unconsciousness. Her eyes dart around, not recognizing anything. Fear flashes across her face. “What happened? Where are we?”
