“Pick me up again,” she whispers.
I lift her into my arms, her weight settling against me as her legs lock around my waist. Her eyes level with mine now, no more looking down or up. When she rocks against me, the friction sends sparks through my body that make my knees weak.
My mind flashes to my bedroom, to her sprawled across my sheets, winter clothes abandoned on the floor. But we’re here, now, with nothing but night air and Christmas lights.
Her breath comes in clouds against my ear, little puffs that match the rhythm of her movements. I taste the salt on her neck, drag my lips along her pulse point. She shudders.
My fingers find their way beneath layers—past her jacket, under her sweater—to the warmth beneath. She arches into my touch, her thighs tightening around me like she’s afraid I might let go.
We sway together against the pine tree, its needles scratching my back through my coat. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, threatening to unravel me right here in the Wallaces’ backyard.
Harper’s always been the only one who could make me forget myself completely. Her whispers grow more urgent, her movements less controlled, and something primal takes over my body in response.
Ford,” she breathes, tugging on my hair until my head tilts back, exposing my throat to the cold air.
Her lips crash onto mine again, and my knees nearly buckle. The world narrows to just her weight against me, her fingernails scraping my scalp, the soft sounds escaping her throat.
She rocks against me with purpose now, finding a rhythm that makes her breath hitch. I grip her tighter, steadying us both as she trembles. My name falls from her lips again, this time with an urgency that sends lightning down my spine.
I press my forehead to hers, watching her eyes flutter closed as she moves, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“Harper, are you out here?” her mom calls from the back door.
Her body goes rigid against mine. My fingers, still warm from her skin, curl into a fist as I withdraw my hand from beneath her sweater. The sound that escapes my throat dies somewhere between my chest and lips.
“Yeah, Mom,” Harper calls over my shoulder, her voice an octave higher than normal.
“Gina needs you when you have a minute. No hurry.”
A strand of her hair sticks to the corner of her mouth. She tucks it behind her ear with trembling fingers, pupils still dilated in the Christmas light glow. Her teeth drag across her bottom lip, leaving it flushed and swollen.
I trace the outline of her jaw with my thumb. “We seem to keep meeting like this, huh?”
I’m not complaining. Are you?”
I shift my weight, pressing against her just enough to make her breath catch. “What do you think?”
“Me neither.”
She gives me a quick peck before wriggling to be let down. I lean against the tree as she hurries inside, watching the sway of her hips beneath her jacket. My fingertips still burn with the memory of her skin. I touch my lips, tasting cocoa and the promise of something unfinished.
She glances back once before disappearing through the doorway, and in that half-second look is a question neither of us has answered yet.
The Christmas lights above me flicker, casting shadows that dance across the snow like all the tomorrows I’m hoping for.
Chapter 24
Ford
Ilock up the shop just as the festival lights flicker to life across Main Street, casting honeyed amber and cool blue hues over the snow-dusted cobblestones. Normally, I dread this time of year—the tinny carols blaring from storefronts, the plastic reindeer with their chipped antlers, the forced cheer.
Since Harper moved to Pittsburgh, the festivities have felt ostentatious and gaudy, like costume jewelry on a corpse. But now that she’s back, I’m beginning to see it through her eyes—the beauty in how the light catches snowflakes mid-descent, the magic in children’s laughter echoing between old brick buildings. A magic that I hope will draw her closer to me.
As I turn to leave, Asher looms too close, his wool peacoat reeking of expensive cologne, nearly getting knocked over when my shoulder catches his.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, his breath clouding between us in the December air.
“Locking up the store and going home,” I reply, expecting him to step aside. Instead, he stands his ground, a smirk playing on his lips, as if daring me to push past him. It almost makes me chuckle.
