Page 97 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I press a kiss to her temple, strangely moved by having rendered her speechless. “I’ve discovered the one foolproof way to quiet you.”
“Highly effective method,” she agrees, nestling closer. “Though don’t get too smug. I’ll be back to annoying you with snow globe trivia in about five minutes.”
“I’m counting on it.” I pull her tighter against me, realizing with some surprise that I genuinely mean it. “I’ve grown oddly fond of your endless commentary.”
“Liar,” she says, but she’s smiling. “You wanted to strangle me that first day at the airport when I manhandled your precious designer luggage.”
“I wanted to kill you,” I admit, tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. “Though my methods have...evolved.”
She laughs—that uninhibited sound that’s become my favorite melody. “From airport rage to mind-blowing orgasms. That’s quite the evolution, Mr. Lockhart.”
“The best things in life are unexpected,” I tell her, capturing her wandering hand and bringing it to my lips.
“Even the wolves?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Even the wolves,” I concede, pressing a kiss to each of her fingers. “Though next time, let’s stick to five-star accommodations rather than survival scenarios.”
“Next time?” She raises an eyebrow, propping herself up to look at me. “Already planning ahead?”
“I’ve spent my entire life planning every minute detail,” I tell her. “But now all I want to plan is how to keep you in it.”
Her expression softens. “That’s quite a declaration from a man who nearly proposed to someone else a month ago.”
“A lifetime ago,” I correct her. “I’m not that man anymore.”
She studies my face, those perceptive green eyes searching for the truth.
“I’ll embarrass you at fancy dinners,” she warns. “Make inappropriate jokes at board meetings. And your mother will despise me.”
“Probably,” I agree, trailing my fingers down the curve of her waist. “Though watching you and Mother in the same room might be the most entertaining thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
She snorts, burying her face against my chest. “You say that now. Wait until I explain the historical significance of snow globe manufacturing techniques to your investors.”
“I look forward to it,” I tell her, and the strangest part is that I’m not lying.
“You’re completely insane,” she says, but her eyes shine with something that looks suspiciously like happiness.
“Completely,” I agree, rolling her beneath me again, already hardening against her thigh. “Now, about that second round of treatment the doctor prescribed...”
Twenty-Eight
SEBASTIAN
“And which fork would you use for the truffled scallops, Ms. Monroe?”
Mother’s question slices through the dining room like an aimed dagger as Bailey freezes mid-reach. Six identical silver forks gleam beside her plate—an elegant minefield designed for her failure. The triumphant glint in my mother’s eye makes my blood simmer.
Bailey swallows hard, fingers hovering above the elaborate table setting. A woman who can navigate violent storms and land-damaged planes, now disarmed by my mother’s deliberate maze of cutlery.
“Mother, for God’s sake. The fork doesn’t matter—she’s a pilot, not the Queen of England. This ridiculous cutlery quiz is beneath you.” The words escape before I can stop them, shocking even myself with their bluntness after thirty-four years of perfect compliance.
Mother’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips. Bailey’s eyes widen beside me, her jaw dropping.
“Sebastian,” Father warns from the head of the table, his voice low and dangerous. “Apologize to your mother. Now.”
Bailey shifts beside me, her body tense. She’s preparing to leave, to run. Her hand slides from mine, and without looking, I catch it mid-escape, lacing our fingers together.
“No,” I say.
