Page 76 of Lotus

Taking his coat and removing mine, I drape them over an empty chair and eyeball the drink cart. As I saunter over, I get a whiff of an off-putting smell that sends a quick shiver up my spine:eucalyptus. Keeping the flashbacks at bay, I glare at the bushel of dried leaves and swallow back the traumatic memory. “Eggnog?” I ask Oliver, collecting myself, while noting his restless legs and roving eyes. He’s clearly uncomfortable, and I don’t blame him—evenI’muncomfortable amongst my crazy-ass relatives, and that’s saying a lot, considering I’m…me.

Oliver licks his lips, finally giving a reluctant nod. “All right.”

I scoop two generous glasses, handing him one of them. “Cheers.”

“Yes. Cheers.” He forces a smile as we clink our glasses together, then takes a big sip.

He spits it right back out into the glass.

“You don’t like it?” I ask, a laugh slipping through.

Oliver glances up at me with wide eyes. “I think the beverage has been tampered with. We should alert the others.”

More laughter, accompanied by a snort. “Oliver, that’s just the rum. It’s an alcohol-based eggnog.”God, the look on his face as he processes my response. Relief, humor, a hint of embarrassment. Nothing,no one, touches my heart the way Oliver Lynch does. “But if you don’t like it, I can get you a Pepsi or something.”

He scratches the nape of his neck, gaze floating up to me. “This is fine. Now that I’m aware it’s not going to kill me.”

Our smiles match, causing my skin to heat.

Sensing our hold, my sister ambles up and smacks me on the behind, pulling a yelp from my throat. She waggles her eyebrows. “Step a little to the left and look up. I can give you a push if you want.”

My glare is deadly. “Mistletoe. Cool. I’m not fifteen, Clem.”

“Missile’s toe?” Oliver inquires, spinning his glass between long fingers, then taking another sip. He winces through his gulp.

“It’s a Christmas-kissing thing. Ignore her, she’s a child.”

“Oh.” Another slow sip. More processing. “I’m unsure what a projectile with feet has to do with kissing. Or Christmas, for that matter.”

Clem laughs beside us, sipping on a can of soda since she volunteered to drive us home. “It’s a plant—if you’re caught standing under the mistletoe, you have to kiss. It’stradition,” she insists, eyes narrowing. “If you fail to uphold tradition, Syd, I’ll have to call Cousin Hattie over here to take your place, and youknowhow her tongue gets when she drinks Schnapps.”

“You’re evil,” I say through my teeth, compiling all the ways I can get her back for this. I return my attention to Oliver, who is watching me with interest, brows slightly furrowed, lips parted like a silent query. “Fine.”

I don’t think it over too much and lean up on my tiptoes to plant a chaste kiss against his stubbled jaw. I linger briefly, just long enough for Oliver to twist his head and capture my lips, his own kiss equally soft and sweet, hardly applying any pressure at all.

But I feel the pressure as it winds tightly down below. My senses go into overdrive, and he’s all I can smell, taste, touch. I swear I can hear his heartbeat in my ears.

Or maybe it’s mine.

Maybe it’s both of our heartbeats, beating in perfect rhythm, together as one, and maybe they always have been.

When I lower myself back to the floor, Oliver’s eyes are closed, his lips still parted and lightly smudged with red lipstick. I lift my thumb to his bottom lip in an attempt to remove the small stain. His eyes flare open, words written in his blazing irises, telling me everything he meant to say with that kiss.

But I heard him, loud and clear.

My thumb tingles as I draw back, and Clem is quick to interrupt our fusion. “‘Atta girl,” she quips, her shoulder nudging mine as she winks. She’s whispers the word while gliding out of the kitchen, “Potential.”

Oliver stares at me, his longing evident, and I feel myself crumbling.

Ruin.

Watching Oliver transition into tipsy territory has been an amusing development that has kept my smile in place all evening. I had been reluctant to leave his side, but once the eggnog kicked in, Oliver found his footingandhis confidence… and Uncle Rory.

Luckily, Oliver looks glued in on the tale I’ve heard recapped approximately eight-million times throughout my life. I don’t pick up on any distress signals, so I give him his space, observing from afar and sipping on my own cocktail, letting the alcohol warm me.

That warmth turns into white-hot heat when Oliver meets my gaze from across the room. He sensed me. He felt my eyes on him.

Uncle Rory keeps blathering away, not noticing the fact that Oliver has zoned out of the conversation and is having an entirely separate one with me from ten feet away. It’s silent and wordless, our eyes doing the talking. I have no idea what mine are saying, but I sure as hell know whathisare saying, and it causes me to clamp my thighs together as my center throbs and tingles in response.

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