Page 129 of This is a Kissing Book

Her smile starts small and spreads across her whole face like a sunrise. I lean down for another kiss, this one lingering, and she sighs against my lips.

“What’s the plan today?” she asks when I pull back.

“It’s a surprise. Dress for something active, but bring a jacket.”

“So mysterious.”

I stop by the door to her bedroom, remembering courage. “Actually, Jules, would you go on a date with me this afternoon?”

She presses to sit up fully. “A date?”

“Yeah, like, um, when two people go somewhere together …”

She tips her head back with laughter. “I know what a date is.”

“Will you go on a date with me, Miss Lindley?”

She fiddles with the edge of the quilt on her bed and then looks up at me with a bright smile. “You don’t have to ask twice.”

After breakfast and church (where she prayed we weren’t reenacting an Indiana Jones or National Treasure scene on our date), we stand outside Millennium Park’s ice skating ribbon, watching skaters glide across the rink in the still-warm September air.

She asks, “Ice skating? It’s like summer and fall are having a turf war over the season.”

“Have you ever been?”

“That’s like asking if Las Vegas is hot. We spent as much time as possible in air-conditioned venues, the ice skating rink included. My brothers love hockey.”

I nearly trip as I step onto the sheer surface. Getting my footing, I glide forward smoothly. It feels like coming home, even if these skates are rentals.

“Wait for me,” Jules calls, but she’s grinning as she joins me, slightly wobbly.

“You’re pretty good at this,” I say, skating backward so I can watch her face.

“With the triplets, I had to learn to be athletic fast or get left behind. Mom enrolled us all in everything—skating, swimming, soccer, martial arts.”

I continue skating backward. “I had to pick one sport. It was fencing or this.”

She laughs. “Show off.”

We spend an hour on the ice, racing each other around the rink, playing impromptu games of tag, and stealing kisses when we think no one’s looking. Jules’s cheeks are pink from exertion, her eyes bright with laughter, and I want to stay here with her, like this, forever.

Afterward, we sit on a bench with Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate. She holds hers with both hands. I wrap my arm around her.

She tips her head to look up at me and says, “Being with you makes me feel melty. Like hot chocolate marshmallow goo.”

The simple contentment in her voice makes me feel like a hunting dog lazing in front of a warm fire. I was about to tell her about hockey—about who I really am. But looking at her face, seeing her this happy and relaxed, I lose my nerve. She’ll want to know why I didn’t mention it before now. I’m afraid she’ll think I didn’t trust her.

There will be time for truth later. Right now, I just want to be the man who makes her feel like melted marshmallows.

The next morning, I wake her the same way—with a kiss that starts gentle and deepens when she responds. Her arms wind around my neck, fingers threading through my hair as she pulls me closer.

“I could get used to this wake-up service,” she murmurs against my mouth.

I nuzzle her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, trying to memorize the way she feels in my arms. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Preseason starts tomorrow. With that comes training, media obligations, and the demands of a new season. How do I balance that with this—with her?

I push the thoughts away and focus on the present, on the way she sighs when I press kisses along her collarbone, on the trust she shows by letting me hold her like this.