Page 49 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to reach over and check.
“You ever feel like the wolves have the right idea?” My fingers trace patterns in the condensation on my cup. “Pack animals. Always together. Must be nice.”
Sebastian shifts beside me, but I keep my eyes on the tea.
“Sometimes,” I continue, because apparently we’re doing this, “I land somewhere, and there’s this moment when I turn on my phone...and there’s nothing. Sometimes there are a couple of messages from my friends—Cora sharing pics of her latest event, Jill with party questions, Riley sending memes at 3 AM. And I love them, I do. They’re my people. But they have their own lives, you know? Their own priorities and schedules, and relationships.”
I tap the rim of my cup, watching ripples spread across the surface. “And I get it. I’m not resentful or anything. It’s just...”
The words seem too honest, too raw. But the wolves howl outside, and something about this cabin, this night, this man sitting beside me makes the truth spill out.
“Sometimes I wish I were someone’s priority. Just once. Someone who’d clear their schedule when I land, who’d check in not because they remembered I exist, but because they couldn’t stop thinking about me. Someone who wouldn’t be too busy.” My throat tightens. “And then I feel selfish for even wanting that.”
The kettle whistles from the fireplace. I hobble over, grateful for the excuse to escape whatever’s happening between us. My ankle protests with each step, but it’s better than sitting there with him that close.
I wrap a cloth around the kettle’s handle and refill our cups, the steam rising between us like a barrier. The pine needle tea was Sebastian’s idea—apparently, his survival training includes making beverages from forest findings. It tastes like Christmas trees and dirt, but it’s hot, and right now, the heat feels like a miracle.
“This tea is terrible,” I say, passing him a fresh cup. “But I guess it beats freezing to death.”
His fingers brush mine during the handoff. The contact sends a jolt straight to my chest.
His hand covers mine on the tin cup. I freeze. His skin is soft, warm against my callused fingers. Too warm. Too nice. Too much like something I can’t have.
“You’re honest.” His voice comes out soft. “Better than perfectly scripted messages that mean nothing.”
His hand remains on mine, and I can’t stop staring at whereour fingers meet.
A wolf howls again, closer this time. The sound echoes through my chest, lonely and wild, making my eyes burn. I blink hard, focusing on the steam rising from my cup, pretending I didn’t admit how pathetically alone I am to a man who schedules his social obligations months in advance.
“You know what’s worse than being alone? Being alone in a crowd. Like at those fancy parties where everyone’s making small talk and I’m just...too much.”
I swallow hard, staring into my tea like it holds answers. Like if I focus hard enough on the swirling liquid, I can ignore the tears threatening to spill. Stupid wolves. Stupid near-death experience making me emotional. Stupid everything.
“Too much is better than too perfect.” He shifts, and the firelight catches his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. Something in his voice makes my chest tight. “At least you’re real. Not like my life.”
I turn to him, searching his face for any sign of mockery or pity. His eyes hold nothing but raw honesty, stealing my breath.
“I schedule everything,” he confesses, his thumb tracing circles on my hand. “Every minute. Every interaction. Trying to be perfect.” His voice catches. “And look where that got me.”
My heart skips at his words. “Got you here?” I try to keep my voice light. “Stuck in a cabin after surviving a plane crash with the most annoying pilot ever?”
His hand tightens on mine. “No.” The word comes out rough. “It got me here, sitting next to someone who threw her prized possession at wolves to save my life, while my supposed perfect match is still in bed with another man.”
The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch. His perfect composure shatters. He jumps up from the bench, the sudden movement sending the tin cup rattling.
“Mr. Perfect.” He spits the words. “That’s what you called me, right? At the airport?” His arms swing wide, knocking into a gas lantern. It wobbles, nearly falling. “Well, guess what? Not so perfect after all.”
I press back against the wall, watching him pace. Three steps left, turn, three steps right. His shoulders bunch under his shirt, movements sharp and jerky. Nothing like his usual calculated grace.
“Want to know what happened?” He runs his hands through his hair. “I was too blind to see it. Too focused on my perfect plans to notice anything else.” A harsh laugh escapes him. “Walked right in on them. In bed. Together.”
Wait. What? My brain stutters to a halt, replaying his words. Another man. Bed. His girlfriend cheated on him. The perfect, sculpted-by-gods Sebastian Lockhart got cheated on.
Rage blooms, hot and unexpected, in my chest. Who would cheat on him? What kind of idiot would throw away someone who plans Northern Lights proposals and fights off wolves and looks like...well, like him?
My chest aches watching him unravel.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and want to kick myself. Of all the things I could have said—all the words tumbling around in my brain—I pick the most useless ones. Empty words that mean nothing. I’m not sorry.
