Page 82 of Falling Like Snow

Completely freaking mortified that I went too far—and wildly hungry for more—I shift my eyes to the floor. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” He turns away from me. “Let’s just… go back to bed.”

I wait for him to say that now I should sleep in the basement. Or that he will. But he doesn’t. So I nod and whisper, “Yeah. Okay,” and follow him to the living room.

He’s walking evidence of my frenzy—all mussed hair and swollen lips—and even though embarrassment swims through my veins, turning my cheeks rosy as I watch him fluff my pillow, it’s not enough to keep me from wanting to kiss him again.

He situates himself on his side, lying as far back against the couch as possible, leaving space in front of him. My whole body is trembling as I slip beneath the blanket, facing the TV because, let’s face it, lying with my mouth anywhere remotely close to his is risky business right now.

I stare at the screen, barely registering him starting While You Were Sleeping and muting it while I spiral.

What was I thinking? What the hell was I doing? Trying to make up for depriving myself of boys all these years? With my best friend?

Maybe. But it was good. So good.

Only because it was your first kiss, I tell myself. It would have been that good with anyone because you’ve never kissed a boy.

I’m having an entire internal conversation—convincing myself that what just happened was totally fine and normal and that my enthusiasm was not at all linked to the fact that it’s Asher—when he drops his arm over my waist, his hand resting on my upper stomach. “Sorry,” he says quietly, his breath tickling my neck. “Is this okay? I’m not sure what to do with my arm.”

“Yeah, of course,” I tell him—because everything is fine. Perfectly fine.

I close my eyes to try to sleep, but when Asher’s thumb begins moving side to side, every synapse in my brain fires. I can think of literally nothing but him caressing my ribs.

Eventually, though, our soft breathing and the steady drumming of my heart in the otherwise-silent house settle my thoughts. And in the faint glow of the Christmas tree lights, with the smell of Asher clinging to my skin, I fall into a deep slumber.

Chapter Twenty-One

Rustling in the entryway awakens me the next morning. I peel my stubborn eyelids open, completely disoriented. A shaft of muted light filters through the bay window behind the couch, and memories of last night come rushing back to me, clearing any lingering fog from my sleepy brain. A few hours ago, I woke to the sound of a plow truck outside, and Asher was sleeping soundly beside me, with my face buried in his chest and his arm slung over me. Now, I spring upright, realizing he’s no longer there.

“Whoa, it’s just me. Relax,” Slug says quietly, grabbing his coat, his hair sticking up in all directions.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going home to get some real sleep,” he says.

“The attic was that bad?”

“Jake was that bad. The dude sprawls when he sleeps. He was either on top of me or pushing me out of the bed, so I slept in the hallway. But I heard someone else head out a little while ago, so I figured the roads must at least be clear enough to get home.”

“Someone left already?” Then it hits me. Asher. I turn to the window—his car is gone.

“I guess. The door never opened again, so…” Slug shrugs. “But thanks for letting us stay last night. I’ll see you around,” he says with a wave.

With asphalt peeking through the white, the roads don’t look as bad as they did last night, but they’re still bad enough to warrant a snow day. Why would Asher leave with the roads still looking so nasty?

Unless he didn’t want to be here when I woke up.

Because he has regrets about what happened when we were half asleep and clearly delirious.

Because he’s embarrassed.

Because, in the dark, the lines became blurred.

Because he thinks I was too into it, so now things are weird.

But he was definitely into it too.

I grab my phone from the floor next to me and text Asher.