The second one missed by a mile.
“Okay,” she teased. “Maybe the purple bear’s safe tonight.”
I squinted at the lineup of bottles like they’d personally insulted me, then took the last ring, kissed it for luck, and tossed. It spun once, twice—then landed perfectly on the center bottle.
She gasped. “No way.”
I turned toward her, smug and glowing like the snow-dusted lights behind me. “Told you. Champion material.”
The carnie handed me the ridiculous bear, and I offered it to her with a flourish. “For you, my lady.”
She took it, tucking it into her arms alongside the penguin. “It’s almost as big as me.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Good thing I’m around to carry it for you.”
I didn’t mean to sound flirty, I don’t think. But my voice softened around the edges, and suddenly we were just… standing there, close enough that our coats brushed, the lights from the Ferris wheel flickering against her face.
Then she rose on her toes and kissed me.
It was quick, a small thing. Barely a kiss at all. But I froze, smiling against her mouth, and then kissed her back, longer and slower this time. Which, truth be told, I had been waiting for it far longer than just tonight. And it was worth the wait.
When we finally pulled apart, I could barely feel my face. “You realize you’re terrible for my blood pressure, right?” she muttered.
I laughed. “Pretty sure you’re terrible for mine too.”
We made it exactly four steps before getting roped into another game—Crossy yelling from somewhere behind the hot chocolate stand about how the boys needed “a rematch.” Saylor handed her a snowball the size of her head and declared we were on the girls’ team now.
It devolved fast.
Five minutes later, she was lying in a snowbank, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe while I tried to brush snow off her coat and failed miserably because I was also laughing.
“Truce!” she gasped. “I surrender!”
I grinned down at her, cheeks pink, snowflakes melting in my hair. “That’s not how it works in war.”
“You’re terrible at mercy.”
“Only because you’re terrible at surrendering.”
“Fine,” she said, trying to sit up. “How about a peace offering?”
My eyes flicked to her lips. “What kind of peace offering?”
She leaned in and kissed me again.
And just like that, the whole world disappeared—the carnival sounds, the cold, the laughter from our friends somewhere behind us. There was only her, warm and solid and so achingly real.
When we finally broke apart, she was grinning like an idiot. “You’re still terrible at snowball fights.”
I brushed a flake off her cheek with my thumb. “You’re still terrible at pretending we’re fake.”
She groaned, throwing a handful of snow at me. “Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur of lights and laughter. We rode the carousel twice, fed each other bites of funnel cake, and took the cheesiest photo imaginable in front of the Christmas tree—her holding the penguin and the purple bear, me kissing her cheek, both of us red-nosed and happy.
By the time the carnival started closing, my gloves were soaked, my hair was a mess, and my heart felt about three sizes too big.
