Page 47 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Well, no effort necessary. You’re succeeding without any.”

“I don’t regret it,” I snap at her retreating back, “but I should.”

“Why?” She stops and turns back to me. “Stop being subliminal and just fucking come out and say it already.”

“It got more heated last night than it should have, and you know it.”

“And? So what. It was consensual.”

“We were in a fucking shed.”

“Well, any time you want to ask me on a date, Thatch, I’m all ears.”

“I can’t date you.”

“Like I said, message received.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to,” I admit through an exhale.

“So then, ask me.”

“I can’t do that, either.”

“Jesus, man, I’m cool with the brooding vibe and the vague answers, but it’s clear you have something going on.”

“Just the opposite, I have nothing going on.” But you.

“There’s something—”

“I don’t want to tell you, in case that isn’t obvious, and it fucking is, because I made it so!” I snap. “So stop asking me.”

“Fine,” she stalks up to me, her eyes drilling, demanding to see inside as I keep my shaking guard up, refusing to let her get as deep as she did last night. It felt too fucking good—and terrifying. Because it felt real and right. Which has fucked with me every second since making it the opposite of fun.

“Do you like me or not?” She demands.

I pause the axe. “Are you fucking joking?”

“You can want to fuck me and not like me. It’s not unheard of.”

Palming the top of the handle, I gaze over at her as the sun sinks between the naked trees behind her. Puffs of crisp air leave her as her eyes implore mine for any truth. Even in the dimming light, her vulnerability is everywhere—in her posture, expression, and gorgeous eyes as she allows me to glimpse it. The way she did so many times last night. Serena in the raw is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. That being the most dangerous fucking part of all of this. I wasn’t prepared for it, and I’ve never felt anything like that with a girl. With anyone. A draw so raw, so magnetic, it felt as if it was meant—fucking made for just us. Her question of liking her lingers in the air as I manage to find my voice through the shit the recollection of last night stirs.

“Do I like you? I’ve made that obvious, too.”

“Then ... I have no idea what to think,” she goes to stalk off, and I reach out and grip her arm.

“This isn’t a teen melodrama, so stop talking in absolutes, throwing tantrums, and trying to stalk off. You want to have a conversation? Then let’s have it. I’m being honest and straight-up telling you I’m no good for you. What don’t you get about that?”

“It’s not that seriou—”

“I can still taste you, and all I’ve been thinking today is that I want to do it again. That’s enough to fuck with my head. Andyou want that too.” I step up to her, and she instantly lifts her eyes, her mouth, herself for access.

“So, if you keep pushing me, I’m going to take what you’re offering—that I’m undeserving of—and without apology. I’m trying to be a better fucking man, Serena, but I’m nowhere near there yet.”

Her eyes flare with intrigue. “Fine with me.”

I shake my head in exasperation as she tilts hers.

“You can keep telling me you’re no good for me, and I’m wondering why that’s even an issue. We barely know each other.”

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