“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”
A tiny smile ghosts across her mouth. “I am.”
That smile destroys whatever restraint I have left.
I kiss her. And the second our mouths meet, I know I’m screwed.
She makes the softest little sound against my lips before grabbing the front of my henley with both hands.
Fuck me. I deepen the kiss instinctively, sliding one arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me.
London kisses like she talks—soft at first, then all at once.
The taste of coffee and maple lingers on her lips while the fire crackles behind us and snow pounds against the cabin windows.
And none of it compares to the feeling of her in my arms. Not even close.
FIVE
LONDON
Kissing Troy Taylor is a lot like getting caught in the storm all over again.
By the time he finally pulls back, I’m breathless enough that I barely remember my own name. His forehead rests lightly against mine while both of us try to catch our breath.
The fire crackles softly behind us.
Neither of us speaks. Mostly because I think we’re both a little stunned by what just happened.
“Well,” I whisper finally.
Troy’s thumb brushes slowly across my jaw. “Well,” he agrees roughly.
I should probably say something smart after a kiss like that. Something flirtatious. Mysterious. Seductive.
Instead, what comes out is: “So… are all the criminals in Swift Mountain secretly good kissers, or just you?”
A startled laugh escapes him.
My stomach promptly somersaults at the sound. I’m doomed.
Troy shakes his head slightly like he can’t quite believe me either.
Catching my shaky breath, his expression softens immediately. Not smug. Not cocky.
Careful. As if my feelings matter to him.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, London.”
The quiet certainty in his voice wraps around something bruised deep inside me.
Because Caleb used to say things like:
“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
