“I don’t think it has, Honey,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate in my chest.
“Otherwise, what’re you doing here with me?”
My breath catches.
And for the first time, I can’t tell if I’m still steering this moment?
Or if maybe, just maybe, something bigger than either of us is.
Chapter 8
Eb
Dinner ends way too fast.
I tell myself it’s because the food was good—perfect, actually—but I know better.
It’s her.
Marigold Santos.
My pretty little holiday Honey.
Curvy, clever, maddeningly confident.
Every time she laughs, something inside me loosens. Every time she talks, I forget whatever grumpy thought I was trying to hold onto.
And now we’re walking side by side down the snow-dusted sidewalk, the scent of ginger, sake, and sugar clinging to her skin like temptation incarnate.
She’s bundled in her camel coat, cheeks pink from the cold, curls escaping her knit hat.
And I—I’m doomed.
Completely, spectacularly doomed.
“Okay, admit it,” she says, nudging me with her shoulder. “You liked the ramen.”
I grunt. “It was acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” she gasps, mock-offended. “You practically inhaled it! But I gotta give you props, you did it without slurping.”
“Badgers eat fast,” I deadpan.
“Oh my God, you’re blaming your animal now?”
“Instinct,” I tell her, and when she rolls her eyes, I catch her hand before I can stop myself.
Her fingers are small, warm, and she looks up at me like I’ve just broken some invisible rule.
Maybe I have.
But I don’t care.
Because this—all of this—feels good. It feels right.
“Instinct’s a powerful thing, Honey,” I murmur, stepping closer.
The snow is falling harder now, catching in her dark curls and glinting under the soft gold glow of the lampposts.
