“—but I’m hoping we can find a way to move forward.”
My stomach levels out, and a tiny kernel of hope starts to take root and bloom in my chest. “What does forward look like?”
“Whatever we want it to look like. That’s the beauty of it. We may not be able to change our beginning or anything that’s happened since, but we can start from here and aim for a different ending.”
That all sounds great, but it still doesn’t answer my question. What kind of ending is he talking about? Does he want to be friends? Friends with benefits? Because I don’t think I can handle either of those. Not with him. I’m a selfish son of a gun. I want all of him or nothing at all.
I’m also an impatient sun of a gun when I want something. Or someone. Which means it’s time for me to take matters into my own hands and take control of this conversation.
“What if I want it to look like this?”
Faster than you can say “committed relationship,” I’m out of my chair and in his lap, straddling him, my hands braced on the arms of his chair. It occurs to me that anyone can walk out here and see us like this, in a position that can only be described as intimate. I mean, dudes who are friends don’t usually sit in each other’s laps unless one of them is Santa Claus, right?
But I’m past caring. Besides, I’m a touchy-feely kind of guy, and it’s hard keeping my hands off Adam’s beautiful body. If we’re going to do this, he’s going to have to get used to a little—or a lot of—PDA.
He tenses, and for a second I think he’s going to push me away. Then his muscles relax and his arms band around my waist, pulling me close.
“I could be on board with that.”
“Or this?”
I take his face in my hands, his late-night stubble scraping my palms, and run a thumb over the soft fullness of his lower lip before pressing my mouth to his. I don’t know how long we kiss. Could be minutes, could be hours. All I know is it’s perfect, like every kiss is with Adam. No one has ever kissed me like he does. With purpose and passion and something new this time—promise.
“Yeah, that’s good, too,” he says when we finally break apart. “But I’ve got one condition.”
“Only one?” I slide my hands down to his shoulders.
“Okay, two.”
“Name them.”
“No more running. No more hiding. I want to be with you. Really be with you. I want you in the stands at my games, wearing my jersey and shouting your silly substitute swears at the refs when they make a bad call. I want to be in the audience when you perform, leading the standing ovation. I want to go to V and V or anywhere else we want to go and not pretend that it’s a study date. I want everyone to know that I’m yours and you’re mine. And if we have a problem or a misunderstanding, we face it head-on and talk it out.”
He’s the one who ran and hid when things got tough, but now isn’t the time to point that out to him, not when he’s saying exactly what my heart wants to hear. My lips find his again for the briefest of kisses. “I can live with that.”
“And—”
“Wait, wasn’t that two? More than two, actually.” I count them off on my fingers. “No running, no hiding, I go to your games and fake swear at the refs, you lead standing ovations at my performances—”
“Nah. They’re all part of the same basic no-running-no-hiding theme, so they count as one.”
I’m not sure I agree with him, but, again, I’m not going to argue, especially when his conditions sound like heaven, no matter how you add them up. “What’s the second condition, then?”
He peppers my jaw with light kisses and an occasional nip, and when he speaks it’s with his lips still against my skin. “That you come home with me for Christmas.”
I turn my head so my mouth meets his. Now that I have free rein to kiss him, I can’t seem to stop. This one is longer, lingering, lustful. We’ve got weeks to make up for, and although I know we have all the time in the world to do it, I’m putting all my pent-up emotions—the joy, the relief, the desire—in this kiss.
And so is Adam. Lips glide, tongues tangle, hands wander. I hate for it to end, but eventually we have to come up for air.
“Christmas with your family would be great,” I say when the sexual brain fog recedes and I can form coherent thought. “But what about Hannah?”
I doubt my parents are going to welcome her with open arms now that she’s abandoned her mission, and I’d be the world’s crappiest brother if I left her alone in Vermont for the holidays.
“She can come too. My mom’s never had a daughter. She’ll probably spoil the heck out of her. Take her clothes shopping or for mani-pedis or whatever it is women do together to bond.”
My chest squeezes and my eyes are wet with happy tears. This guy. He’s thought of everything, including my sister. “I’ll ask her, but I’m pretty sure she’d love that.”
Hannah has always been a girly-girl, and our mom’s never been into that kind of stuff. She’s never been into anything except her faith and her church and keeping up appearances so she doesn’t lose her standing in the community.
