I pull on his flannel shirt, dragging him to me, and press my mouth to his.
It's soft. Careful. My lips against his, a question I'm not ready to hear the answer to.
He goes still.
Not pulling away. Holding himself back, the whole of him going careful, waiting for me to figure out where I'm going.
He pulls back one millimeter. His forehead drops to mine.
"You sure?" The words come out warm against my lips. His forehead against mine, his shirt in my fist, the cold at my back.
I don't answer.
I kiss him again.
He makes a sound low in his throat and his arm comes around my back and pulls me flush against him. I feel the full length of him, warm through the flannel, solid and immediate, hard against my hip.
My breath stops. Heat drops through me like a stone through water, pooling low, and my fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt because my hands need something to hold on to.
His hand slides into my hair. He presses his tongue to my lips and I open for him. My fists tighten in his shirt. The cold at my back is nothing. He is warm and here and real.
A car horn cuts through the trees from somewhere down the drive.
Jace swears against my mouth.
He pulls back a fraction. His forehead stays on mine. His eyes are darker than usual and we're both still catching up.
"I forgot," he says, low. "Solar panel guy. Checking the array." A pause. "He's never on time."
I look at him.
He takes a step back, but his eyes stay on me, while he reaches down and adjusts himself without apology or embarrassment.
"Hold that thought."
He goes down the porch steps toward the drive, hands in his pockets, unhurried.
I watch him go.
The cold comes back. But my mouth is still warm.
13
JACE
The rope burns even through the gloves.
I know this because I've been gripping it for the better part of an hour, dragging a tractor tire through six inches of fresh snow, and my hands went numb about twenty minutes ago. The chain connecting the rope to the tire clanks with every pull. My boots punch through the snow crust and find frozen ground underneath. Cold air comes in sharp and goes out as steam. Every muscle from my shoulders to my calves is filing a formal complaint.
Good. That's the point.
Owen is on the TRX straps rigged to the big pine, working slow controlled rows, breath coming in short white bursts. Reid is on the stacked tires, jumping up and landing and jumping again. Nobody is talking. The cold and the effort don't invite it.
I set my feet and pull. The tire grinds through the snow and the chain snaps taut and I lean into it until my vision narrows to the trench I'm carving in the white ground behind me.
I need to stop thinking about the kiss.
That's the whole problem. I've been awake since five and I've been thinking about it since then. The way she pulled on my shirt. The way her mouth felt. The way she kissed me the second time like she'd made a decision and was done being careful about it. And if I keep going down that road I'm going to be hard in the middle of a workout with my uncle and my brother and that is not happening. Not in almost-zero temperatures with an audience.
