I lunge, too late. The paper bag slips from her arm, and then she’s colliding with me—sharp elbow to ribs, breath punched clean out of my chest. We go down hard into the snow.
Her hands land flat against me, one over my heart. Soft curls spill loose, scattering cold flakes across my cheeks, my jaw. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she purposefully found the softest place to fall.
She’s lodged between my hips, legs tangled with mine, a heat blooming where there should be pain.
“Graceful.” She lets out a startled, breathless sound. “As usual.”
I groan. Not from the landing. From the fact that she’s moving now—just a little—trying to push herself up, and every shift drags her thigh along mine.
“You’re going to murder me one of these days.”
“That implies intent,” she says, wriggling, which is absolutely the opposite of helpful. “I’m more of a hazard than a certified criminal.”
“Stop—” My voice cracks. “Moving.”
She freezes, eyes wide, cheeks flaming. It hangs between us, that thin, electric line. Her breath clouds the air above my mouth. One more inch and she’d be tasting it.
A beat. Two.
“Wells.”
“Elsie.”
God help me, I don’t know whether to roll her off or pull her closer.
Her laughter fades when she notices. Our eyes catch and hold. Snowflakes melt against dark lashes. The world feels tight and narrow.
“You’re lucky I was here to catch you,” I murmur roughly.
She blinks up at me. “I’m fine.”
“You nearly cracked your head open on a maple root,” I counter. “That’s not fine.”
“Would’ve been a quick way to solve the trust problem.”
Something in me snaps at that—sharp, protective, wanting all at once. “Don’t joke about that.”
She looks at me then, and I swear the whole town falls away. It’s just her, here in my arms, pupils wide, lips parted. She’s waiting for me to decide what to do, isn’t she?
I should let go. I should stand us up, put space between us where there is none. But the heat of her body pressed into mine feels like gravity, like inevitability, and when her chin tips up that single impossible inch—
I kiss her.
It’s a hungry, claiming sort of kiss, and her lips are warm and sweet. It makes me forget all about the snow, the trust, the weight of anything that isn’tthis.
She tastes like cinnamon and winter air, and she makes the smallest sound in her throat that has me wanting to sink to my knees in the middle of the town green. To worship her right fucking here.
I never got to taste her properly. I wish I had taken my time, shown her all the things I dreamed up before that night.
Before I can move again, she jerks back, eyes wide, lips kiss swollen. If I were a worse man, I’d grab hold of her and beg her not to go.
“I thought we were still pretending,” she whispers. “That it never happened.”
My chest heaves. I cup her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her mouth. I can’t stop staring at it. “No. I said you could pretend if you needed to.”
She blinks, slack-jawed. “So, you’ve just been—what—waiting?”
“Following your lead,” I say, low.
