“I mean,” I rush on, because my mouth has apparently declared independence from my brain, “we keep bumping into each other. Small workspace. Totally normal. Occupational hazard. Nothing romantic about basic spatial awareness.”
He’s studying me with an expression I can’t decipher, those steel-blue eyes trying to solve some puzzle I’m not sure I understand myself.
“Right,” he says slowly. “Spatial awareness.”
“Completely practical,” I confirm, focusing intensely on painting sleigh runners that definitely don’t require this level of concentration.
“You missed a spot.”
His voice is quiet, and suddenly he’s right behind me, his hand covering mine on the paintbrush, guiding it to a section that honestly looks fine to me.
His hand is warm and steady, completely contradicting his reputation for being perpetually irritated with the world. When I look up at him, there’s something in his expression that makes my heart forget how to beat properly.
“There,” he says softly, but he doesn’t step away.
“Perfect,” I whisper, definitely not talking about paint coverage.
We’re standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his chest.
“Mads,” he says, my name like a question.
I should step back. Make some joke about paint coverage or Kira’s romantic supervision. Do anything except tilt my face up toward his like some Victorian heroine waiting for her hero to sweep her off her feet.
But I don’t step back.
And he doesn’t either.
“This is probably a terrible idea,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to brush a streak of green paint from my cheek.
“Probably,” I agree, my voice barely a whisper.
“We barely know each other.”
“True.”
“And I’m terrible at this. At relationships. At letting people in.”
“I’m pretty terrible at it too. My last boyfriend said I was too much. Too optimistic.”
His jaw tightens. “He was an idiot.”
“Maybe. But what if he was right? What if I am too much?”
“Mads.” His thumb traces along my cheekbone, so gentle it makes my chest ache. “You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t pull away. I can’t. Because this kiss feels like coming home and jumping off a cliff all at once. Feels like Christmas morning and the first warm day of spring and every good thing I’ve ever believed in wrapped up in one perfect moment.
When we break apart, I’m dizzy. Breathless. Completely undone by the way he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of miracle he never expected to find.
“Yes! I knew it!” Kira shouts from across the workshop, making us both jump apart like we’ve been caught doing something scandalous instead of having the sweetest first kiss in the history of first kisses.
“Kira,” Asher says, his voice rough, “weren’t you supposed to help your mom with dinner prep?”
“Not until five. It’s only four-thirty. Grandma’s going freak when I tell her about the kissing under the—” Kira stops, looking around. “Oh. There’s no mistletoe. But there’s paint! That’s even better! Paint-kissing is super artistic!” She grins at us like she’s enjoying this level of torture way too much.
I bury my face in my hands, caught between laughter and mortification. When I peek through my fingers, Asher’s looking at me with an expression of amused horror.
