Page 87 of Born in the Spring

Thirty-Six

Elara

We hold hands on the walk over, and when the main lodge comes into view, every square inch illuminated with lights and bearing Christmases past, my fingers loosen, and Jasper lets go of my hand.

My fingers curl around the breeze as I look at him, seeing him looking back. And he smiles, but it’s a fold in his lips, a small flinch in his eyes that disappears as quick as it shows, following me in a move backward that leaves my hand—and me—cold and empty without his.

Another thing wrong that needs to be set right.

And it will be. The loosening from how our hands are still tied was an instinct I won’t have anymore after tonight.

We both speed up our steps, like he’s just reminded himself too, us sharing this instinct to speed up time, and his smile is more him, though soft, when our eyes meet now.

“I’m here,” I assure him as we draw closer to the lights, music, and chatter, my heartbeat accelerated with the clickingof my boots.

“I’m here too,” he assures me back as he opens the door. He waits for me to walk in first, so I do, his touch light on my lower back. My mouth opens to tell him to keep his hand there once it’s gone, when he stays a pace behind, because he shouldn’t be behind me; he belongs at my side.

Our gazes catch and lock as I glance at him over my shoulder, seeing him stopped now. And when I stop too, raising a questioning brow—we can still walk in together—his eyes drag down my body in answer, and I realize hehasbeen next to me the whole way over, and on this last trek, he wants a view.

“Keep walking, Elara.”

His low command is a shiver along my skin, and I go on ahead, both sets of my cheeks warm as I keep walking.

The crowd is bigger this year, which both swells and stirs my heart. The lights are twinkling. The fireplace is lit, with stockings hung all along the mantel. The tree is always the glowing standout, next to Zacharias, who is currently playing “The First Noel” at the piano.

The atmosphere is merry and bright. As it should be. This annual party is a godsend for our mountain community. For anyone who doesn’t have a family to spend Christmas with, or who does, but needs a better one. Food and gifts and companions.

Jasper’s arm brushes mine as he removes his jacket, and I do the same, him taking mine off my hands and hanging both on the coat rack to sudden whistles and snickers anduh ohs from the crowd closest to us.

We freeze, holding gazes, before we both look up, remembering the mistletoe.

This is our first time standing under it, me and him, because I always walked in with Shepherd.

Everyone gets a good laugh or a good swoon, depending on who ends up here together, and for us, it’s laughter, almost toeing the line of pity.

A lowhe wishesreaches my ears, so I know Jasper heard that too. And though whoever said those words didn’t sound like they were trying to be harsh, it’s all just in fun, they still give me a physical shock, jarring me closer to him, where I should be.

This racing in my heart is all for Jasper. All I care about is him. All I see is him. All I see is each flash of pain on his face every time I’ve veered from us.

Even now, there’s no questioning in his eyes as he gives me another tucked smile, resigned in knowing I’m about to lead us out of this, so he attempts to move us first.

“It’s okay,” he says at my ear, his hand pressed into my lower back as he starts us toward the bar, those words never sounding more off.

“Jasper.” I breathe his name, grabbing at his shirt, then his mouth is on mine.

Sounds fade away as our bodies—everything, lines up in this kiss, in this moment. His hands hold my face with the slow sweep of his tongue, that has my knees weak every time, my pulse accelerating with the crescendo of the piano music.

One of Jasper’s fingers twirls through a strand of my loose hair, tickling my cheek, every touch a fresh shiver.

We both pull back on an exhale, his smile shaded bronze, which means he’s successfully ruined my lipstick. He leans his forehead against mine with a squeeze on my hips, as music and chatter swoop back in at once, whispers, and even morewhistles, but it’s all just noise. Every sense is set on fire by Jasper’s hands, his gaze, his grin, all within the thrilling sensation of eyes on us—as us.

Then my next panic of the night snaps my attention to those eyes, looking for Amie’s.

“She’s not up here,” Jasper observes, meeting the stares too.

“It’ll get to her,” I say, my words a mimic of how quick something like this spreads.

“I’ll find her.” He gives my hips another squeeze before he hurries through the people, making sure we get to her first. And I’m taken back to seven months ago when I said that same assurance to Amie about Jasper, and I hold to the hope again that this won’t end in a similar way.

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