“Didn’t need to.”
“We’re losing, man.”
“I’m okay with that.”
He pauses. Then follows my gaze, lets out a slow exhale, and mutters, “Ohhh. You’re so gone.”
I don’t deny it.
Because I am.
Utterly, completely, inexplicably gone over a girl who wears aprons like armor and looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to kiss me or kill me.
And all I can think is:
Let her choose.
I’ll take either.
The night winds down in a haze of spilled cider and leftover cookies, victory debates and lopsided board game stacks.
Team Moose Drool ends up winning the whole thing, of course.
Gracie demands a recount. Jace tries to rally a protest. Someone throws a marshmallow.
But I don’t care.
Because Josie laughed when they won.
This full bodied thing that tilted her head back and crinkled her nose and made every damn person in the room want to laugh with her. Including me. Especially me.
Now, the crowd’s thinning out, the room softening.
The lights are dimmer, the fire’s burning low.
Bea’s off arguing with Dale the handyman about who left the Monopoly money in the chili pot one time, and Jace finally tapped out, muttering something about being robbed and “needing to emotionally recharge his trivia battery.”
And somehow, it’s only me and her.
The Timberline Inn is quiet now. Warm. Lit by firelight and the last strands of fairy lights twinkling overhead like stars someone strung up on purpose.
Josie’s sitting at the long wooden table, absentmindedly stacking coasters into a crooked little tower. The smile playing on the corner of her lips has my pulse absolutely pounding.
I step closer.
She glances up.
For a second, neither of us says anything. There’s no need to. It’s all there. In the air. In the way we look at each other. Like we’re both standing on the edge of something big and real and maybe terrifying.
“You didn’t collect your trophy,” she says, voice low, teasing.
“We lost,” I remind her.
She shrugs. “Participation trophies still count. You did technically spell ‘cummerbund’ right. Eventually.”
“That was Gracie.”
“Still counts.”
