Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Even as I acknowledge his joke with a soft laugh, my heart aches for him. “Oh, Luke. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize things had been that bad.”
He gives a small shake of his head. “Please, don’t pity me.”
“I don’t, I feel for you. With you.”
“But you don’t have to,” he says, meeting my gaze again, the softness in his voice taking my breath away. “I thought I was broken, but I’m not sure that’s true anymore. And that’s all your doing.”
My lips part, awe swelling inside me. I launched this blackmail plan with this very outcome at least partially in mind, but I never imagined it would go this well.
But maybe I should have. From the moment I laid eyes on this man when we were both still just children, my soul insisted that I’d found a forever friend. An ally. A kindred spirit.
And maybe…
I’m about to do it—to kiss him the way I’ve been dying to kiss him—when he beats me to the punch.
His lips cover mine, warm and right, sending a wave of happiness pulsing through my veins more intense than any whiskey rush. I moan my approval of this very wise decision he’s made and twine my arms tighter around his neck.
He tastes like whiskey and oranges and coming in from the cold after hours on the slopes. His kiss is exciting and comforting, new and familiar, and easily the best present I’ve received in years. The tease of his tongue promises a steamier kiss as soon as we’re alone, and his big hands cradle me like a treasure he doesn’t intend to let slip through his fingers.
And I am…sparkling.
Fizzing.
Glittering and as giddy as Christmas morning.
Finally, he pulls back, gazing down at me, the echo of everything I’m feeling written plainly on his handsome face.
But we don’t talk or head back to our table.
We just keep swaying.
Slow and easy.
Because we’re in no rush and have nowhere to be but here, with each other, making up for lost time.
Around us, the pub keeps being the pub—glasses clink, chairs scrape, someone on the far side of the room yells “Play the hippo song again, Pete!”—but I’m too lost in the way Luke’s looking at me to pay much attention.
Hours later—after more dancing, hot tea with the rest of our cobbler, even more dancing, and settling up with Kevin, who seems genuinely happy to see us holding hands as we approach the bar—we head out into the winter night.
The chill is a welcome kiss on my cheeks after the heat in the pub, and the sky is endless black velvet and diamonds, as far as the eye can see.
It’s beautiful, nearly as beautiful as the way our breath clouds mix in the air as Luke walks me back to my apartment in the old Victorian not far from the country store.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow for the concert at six?” he asks on my front stoop, whispering out of respect for the other tenants, who are likely already asleep this close to midnight. “We can grab dinner first?”
I nod. “Sounds perfect.”
“Good.” And then he kisses me again, deep and sweet, until my head is spinning and every nerve ending is tingling.
It’s a kiss for the ages, a kiss unlike any I’ve experienced before.
I’m so shook, all I can do is nod when he whispers, “Sleep well, Holly Jo,” and starts down my front steps.
He’s leaving, like the gentleman he is.
But he’ll be back.
This is just the beginning. The start of something wonderful.
I can wait to get to the good part. Because, from here on out, it’s all going to be good between us, I just know it.
Twelve
Luke
I wake up Saturday morning with unfamiliar ease in my jaw and a smile already curving my lips. It isn’t an “outmaneuvered my enemy in the boardroom” smile, either. It’s soft, wistful, an innocent thing that feels a little strange on my face.
Strange, but not bad…
I lie in the warm tangle of blankets, staring at the ceiling, examining this unfamiliar sensation, until I pinpoint its source.
It’s her, of course.
And hope…a genuine, unguarded kind of hope I haven’t felt since I woke up in this same bed when I was ten years old, with no clue that it was the last holiday season I’d enjoy for a long time.
I roll onto my side, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. There’s Holly’s last text from last night, sent while I was on the snowmobile headed home—Had the best time tonight. Can’t wait for the concert tomorrow. Sleep well, Grumpy. xo
The “xo” makes my chest tight in a good way.
The same way it tightened when she was in my arms on the dance floor.
I read it three more times, like some kind of lovesick teenager, then force myself to put my cell down and get out of bed. I have things to do—Christmas shopping I’ve been putting off, work emails to address—but more importantly, I need to ensure everything is in order for this evening.