“Fine,” I rasp. “I’m a mom. Who—” I clear my throat and look at my hands, any confidence shot straight to shit. “Who might not be very good at dating, as indicated by the fact my ex-husband sought out other women during our marriage. Who’s abit bruised by the holidays and still doesn’t thinkDie Hardis a Christmas movie despite fully appreciating the five-star cast of side characters.” I flick my eyes to him; his lips twitch. “I guess that’s what I would say.”
“Hm.”
There’s a long pause.
Jay raises a knuckle to my temple before dragging it gently down the side of my face, causing my breath to still.
“I would have thought you’d say something like—” He pauses, pursing his lips in playful consideration. “‘Charming but married an asshole.’ Or ‘loves Christmas but has terrible taste in movies and traditions.’”
I want to laugh, but him touching me, complimenting me, lets only a slight hum come out of my mouth.
His knuckle slips from my face to my shoulder then whispers down my arm over the fabric of my sweater until it reaches my bare hand. He traces each finger. The spaces between them.
Then.
Interlaces his hand with mine.
It is embarrassingly innocent, but the connection of our palms is enough to cause a full body ache. I haven’t been touched in such a purposefully tender way in a long time. I haven’t held a hand besides a child’s in years. Maybe that’s what happened to Ryan and I: We stopped holding hands and our marriage went to hell.
“We’re holding hands,” I say, stating the obvious. Delighted as I am dumbfounded.
“We are.” He squeezes my hand with his. “How do you feel about that?”
I clear my throat. “Um.”
Myummeans one thing: I am so thirsty I would climb into the back seat with him and strip naked.
“I’m fine with it. It’s good. Warm. You have warm hands. Big ones. Which means ...” I squeeze my eyes shut, cringing at how badly this is going. “Big gloves.”
He laughs softly, bending our elbows and angling his head so he has a clear view of where our palms connect. “See how they fit?”
The curves of our two palms mold toward each other like a river to its bank.
He hooks his eyes onto mine. “I don’t know if you’re going to find that on the internet, Hollis. A fit like this.”
Wait—what?
The rapid-fireTat! Tat! Tat! Tat!of machine gun blasts through the speakers. Jay squeezes my hand before releasing it to retrieve his mug and sink back into his seat.
“This is the best part,” he says, eyes on the screen.
While Bruce Willis saves Christmas, I cannot breathe.
My entire body heats like it’s been blasted with a blowtorch, and my heart is pounding like it is actively trying to escape my body.
“What just happened?” I ask, higher pitch to my voice than usual. “Was that—was that something? The hand holding—were you—I don’t know—” I can’t bring myself to say flirting.
“You said you were going to date men on the internet, and I had the urge to know if our hands fit together before you do. They do. Now you’ll know.”
“I’ll know?”
He shrugs, smirks, and barely pulls his attention from the movie as he says, “Looks like it.”
At once, I’m annoyed. “Why do I need to know that?”
“Maybe you didn’t.”
I scoff. “So why do it? Why-why-why even?—”
