My hand found the back of his neck, fingers sliding into the soft hair at his nape. He made a sound—surprised, hungry—and then he was kissing me back with an intensity that sent electricity sparking down my spine.
Farley kissed like he did everything else: precisely, thoroughly, with complete attention to detail. His hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my head to a better angle, and I melted into him like I’d been waiting my whole life for exactly this.
Had I been?
Chapter Ten
Farley
I’d never been kissed like that in my entire life.
Ollie had been a perfectly adequate kisser—competent, practiced, the kind of technique you’d expect from someone who approached relationships with the same methodical precision he applied to his skincare routine. Pleasant. Something you might describe to a friend as comfortable.
This was not comfortable.
This was Samuel Bennett’s mouth against mine, hot, demanding, and tasting faintly of the kombucha we’d shared in Charlottesville. His fingers threaded through my hair, tilting my head to a better angle, and the small desperate sound he made when I kissed him back. My hands gripped his coat like I might drown if I let go.
When we finally broke apart, both of us were breathing like we’d run a marathon.
“Inside,” he growled. “My cabin. Now.”
I should have said no. I should have reminded him about the blizzard, about Gladys’s warnings, about the grocery bags that needed to be unloaded before everything frozen became everything thawed.
Instead, I kissed him again.
We stumbled out of the Range Rover, Samuel’s hand finding mine as we half-walked, half-ran toward his front door. Purrsephone was still watching from the window, her mismatched eyes tracking our progress with an expression of supreme satisfaction.
“Keys,” Samuel muttered against my mouth, fumbling in his coat pocket. “Keys, keys—where are my—”
“Pocket,” I managed.
“Right.”
The key missed the lock twice before finding its target. The door swung open, and we tumbled inside, still kissing, still clinging to each other like teenagers who’d just discovered what hormones were for—
And then I stepped on something.
Something small and soft that made a squishing sound.
I looked down.
A mouse. A very dead mouse, its tiny body slightly flattened under my boot.
“Oh my God,” Samuel said.
“It’s fine,” I blurted, because surely one dead mouse wasn’t enough to derail the most spectacular kiss of my life. “It’s just—”
“There’s another one.”
I followed his pointing finger. On the kitchen floor, approximately ten feet from where we stood, lay a second mouse. This one was arranged with almost artistic precision, its tail curled delicately around its body like it was taking a peaceful nap. Except for the part where it was extremely, definitively dead.
“And,” Samuel’s voice had gone slightly hysterical, “is that a third one?”
It was indeed. The corpse was deposited directly in front of the fireplace, as if it were an offering to some ancient rodent-slaying deity.
Samuel screamed.
Not a manly shout of surprise. Not a dignified exclamation of alarm. A full-throated, horror-movie-victim scream that probably echoed all the way down the mountain to Shifflett’s General Store.
