Page 72 of Checking It Twice
The living room is dimly lit, most of the family having migrated to the kitchen for dessert and coffee. The tree stands in the corner like a beacon, already heavy with decades of memories.
Mitch examines the branches, looking for the perfect placement while I try not to stare at the way his sweater stretches across his shoulders.
“Here,” he says, pointing to a spot that’s just high enough to require me to stretch.
I reach up, trying to hook the delicate ornament onto the branch, but it's just out of my comfortable range. Mitch steps behind me, his chest pressing against my back as his hand covers mine, steadying the ornament.
“Got it?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my neck.
I nod, not trusting my voice, but I don’t step away. Neither does he. We stand there, his body surrounding mine, the ornament forgotten in our joined hands.
Slowly, I turn in his arms until we’re facing each other. The tree lights cast colored shadows across his face, and his eyes are dark with something that makes my pulse race.
“Clare,” he says, my name rough on his lips.
His hand comes up to frame my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. I can see the exact moment he decides to kiss me, can feel the shift in the air between us.
I want it. Want him. Want to forget every rational reason why this is complicated and just let myself fall.
His head starts to lower, and I rise on my toes to meet him halfway—
“Has anyone seen my reading glasses?” Karen’s voice drifts from the kitchen, followed by the sound of footsteps.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers, the moment shattered but the heat still crackling between us. Mitch runs a hand through his hair, and I smooth down my sweater, both of us breathing harder than warranted by just hanging an ornament.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Good Intentions
Mitchell
Mom’s annual matching pajama tradition should be embarrassing. It should make me feel like I’m twelve years old again, posing for awkward family photos that will end up in frames around the house for decades.
Instead, all I can think about is how Clare looks in gingerbread-print flannel.
It shouldn’t be sexy. Flannel covered in cartoon cookies is about as far from seductive as clothing gets. But Clare makes it work in ways that are scrambling my brain. Maybe it’s how the soft fabricclings to curves I’ve memorized with my hands, or the way she laughs when Sophie insists on braiding her hair for the photo.
Maybe it’s because I know what’s underneath those innocent pajamas, know exactly how she sounds when she comes apart in my arms.
“Everyone squeeze together,” Mom directs, wielding her phone’s camera like a weapon. “Mitch, put your arm around Clare. Clare, honey, scoot closer.”
I don’t need to be told twice. My arm slides around her waist, pulling her against my side, and she fits there like she was made for it. Her head tilts toward mine automatically, and I catch the scent of her shampoo mixed with the sugar cookies we’ve been decorating all day.
“Perfect,” Mom says, and I realize she’s not just talking about the photo.
After what feels like a hundred shots from every possible angle, the family starts to disperse. Kids get herded toward bed, and adults migrate toward the kitchen for one last round of eggnog and gossip.
Clare and I end up in my room, and suddenly the space feels smaller than usual. More charged.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing out her hair, and watching her is pure torture. Every stroke of the brush makes me want to bury my fingers in those dark waves, want to mess it up all over again.
“Your mom’s going to have those photos blown up and framed within the week,” she says, not looking at me.
“Probably. She’s got a whole wall of Christmas photos going back twenty years.”
“What’s she going to do with them when this is over?”
The question hits me like a sucker punch because I’ve been trying not to think about it. About the day after tomorrow when we fly back to Dallas and go back to being coworkers. About sitting in meetings with her, pretending I don’t know how she tastes, how she feels wrapped around me.
