Page 78 of Checking It Twice
We’re walking back toward the house, brushing snow off our clothes and still laughing when Clare’s foot finds a patch of ice hidden under fresh powder. She goes down hard, and I’m moving before I consciously decide to, catching her before she hits the ground.
The momentum sends us both stumbling, and we end up pressed against the side of an old oak tree, her body pinned between me and the rough bark. Our faces are inches apart, breath mingling in small white clouds, and suddenly the laughter fades into something heavier.
More dangerous.
“You okay?” I ask, but my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods but doesn’t move away. Neither do I. Her hands are pressed against my chest, and I can feel her heartbeat through her coat, fast and unsteady.
“Mitch,” she whispers, and there’s something in her voice that makes every rational thought scatter.
I lean down, close enough that our noses brush, close enough that one small movement would close the distance between us entirely.
“We shouldn’t,” I say, but I’m already moving closer.
“I know.”
So I kiss her. Soft at first, then deeper when she responds, her hands fisting in my jacket like she’s afraid I might disappear. Shetastes like winter air and possibility, and kissing her against this tree feels like the most natural thing in the world.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“We should get back,” she says, but she doesn’t move.
“Probably.”
“Your family’s going to wonder where we are.”
“Yeah.”
But I step back anyway, giving her space to collect herself. She looks thoroughly kissed, lips swollen and cheeks flushed with more than cold, and the sight makes something primitive and possessive rise in my chest.
Mine. The thought hits without warning, sharp and certain. She’s mine.
Except she’s not. Not really. And in two days, she’ll go back to being my coworker, back to maintaining professional distance and pretending this weekend never happened.
The thought makes my jaw clench.
“Hey,” I say as we start walking again. “Earlier, on the porch. What was that about?”
Her shoulders tense slightly. “What do you mean?”
“The phone call. You were crying.”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“Clare.”
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s not going to answer. Then she does. “It was nothing. Just... family stuff.”
“Your mom?”
“Text message. Very brief, very generic.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but I catch the hurt underneath. “Apparently the step-kids had a big Christmas morning, and she was too busy to actually call.”
The casual way she says it pushes my mouth into a frown. Like she’s used to being an afterthought, used to settling for scraps of attention.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s fine.”
