Her lips are bee-stung. “At kissing? Because I adamantly disagree?—”
I huff a laugh despite the riot in my chest. “At … whatever this is.”
She gifts me with a wide smile. The warmth of it spreads through me like wildfire.
“It’s not really my forte either. Can’t exactly create a plan and neatly outline it with a color-coded system.”
Voice low, I say, “We don’t make sense together.”
She rests her head against my chest and I wrap my arm around her, gripping her close. “No, we really don’t.”
But she doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
Earlier, I moved boxes to make room for the kids to sit on the cot while they waited for their parents. Without room on the floor or another surface, and because of the cold, we can’t afford to question the sleeping arrangements. It’s unavoidable and if I didn’t know better, I’d say the kiss we shared was inevitable.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. We settle onto the narrow cot, snuggled together because there’s no other option in a space this small. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
She fits against me like a missing puzzle piece. Her hair—slightly messy from the squirrel costume head—tickles my chin. We warm each other as snow piles up outside the window.
And for a few stolen hours, I let myself believe this could work.
I waketo voices in the hallway and the horrifying realization that bright, snow-white daylight is streaming through the window.
Winnie stirs against me, blinking groggily. “Is that?—?”
“People,” I finish, already moving.
We scramble apart like guilty teenagers who fell asleep during a movie. I’m smoothing down my shirt while she frantically fusses with her hair, which only makes it worse.
The electronic lock clicks—power fully restored—and the door swings open before either of us can compose ourselves.
Mindy stands there with two coffee cups, her eyes going cartoonishly wide as she takes in the scene.
The rumpled cot.
Our flushed faces.
We’re standing as far apart as the room allows, looking anything but innocent.
“Oh,” she says, looking at Winnie. Then at me with a louder, “Oh.”
“The three kids—” Winnie starts at the beginning, ready to relay how this situation came to be.
Mindy’s smile gleams with knowing. “We just came to check on you two since you weren’t answering your phones.”
Thomas appears behind her, sees us, and his eyebrows jump before he puts two and two together and narrows his gaze like he just walked into a crime scene and caught the thieves red-handed. “Well, well, well.”
“Nothing to see here,” I say, which is technically true if you ignore the earth-shattering kiss and the sleeping arrangement.
“Sure,” Mindy says airily, not believing me.
Thomas paces like a detective. “You expect us to believe that you both just look like that naturally?”
“Like what?” Winnie demands.
Thomas chuckles. “Like you got caught together in a supply closet.”
“First aid room,” I correct automatically, then immediately regret it.
