Page 58 of No Room in the Inn

Nixon leans in, closing his eyes, and for one wild moment I think he’s going to kiss me.

And I amherefor it.

So…I’m not doing so great trying to persuade my heart out of its interest in Nixon. But it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t kiss me. He just leans closer and inhales, breathing deeply.

I blink, surprised. “What are you doing?” I frown. “Are you smelling me?”

“Mm-hmm,” he says absently. “You always smell like cherries.”

My heart trips along a little faster. He knows my scent?

Good. He should. It’s only fair, because I’m positive that if you put me at the cologne counter in the store, I’d be able to pick Nixon’s out of a lineup.

“Is this a thing we’re doing now? Smelling each other?” I say while he continues to breath me in. He should look silly standing there, smelling me, but it’s just straight up attractive.

He shrugs, his eyes fluttering open. “If you want. Go ahead; smell me.”

Ha. You don’t need to tell me twice. I go up on my tiptoes, resting my hands on Nixon’s shoulders to steady myself as I carefully lean in to his neck. I breathe him in, reveling in his spicy, woodsy, utterly masculine smell. I linger for a second, taking the moment in.

My lips accidentally graze his neck as I’m hovering there, and Nixon goes suddenly still, his breathing picking up slightly.

He’s as affected by our nearness as I am. That knowledge makes me a little giddy.

And I should back away. I should not kiss his skin like I desperately want to. I shouldn’t, and yet I find my lips skimming up the side of his neck, barely touching him. His hands clench convulsively at my waist—when did they get there?—as he exhales shakily.

He’s motionless, completely still, and for a second I am too. My lips hover just over the hollow beneath his ear as I war with myself. Give in or walk away?

But before I can decide, Nixon’s hands on my waist are pushing me gently away, and I stumble backward. Heat rises in my cheeks as he says,

“We should go. We’re going to be late.” His voice is tense, his face a mask, and he doesn’t meet my eye as he turns and leaves the kitchen.

***

The party is in full swing when we arrive. I didn’t even realize there were this many people our age left in Woodfield; I sort of just assumed everyone would try to leave as soon as they were old enough.

Guess that was just me.

Nixon is being weird, and I’m worried I am too. The car ride here was one hundred percent silent, and not the comfortable kind of silence; the awkward kind. The we-maybe-almost-kissed-but-you-pushed-me-away kind.

Yeah. Uncomfortable.

I look around the room and see Sarah immediately, because she’s wearing a neon green sweater with actual flashing Christmas lights. She’s next to the buffet table, and I make my way to her, aware of Nixon following silently behind.

When I get to the food, my eyes scan the options. “Thank you,” I say under my breath. “This is what I’m talking about.” There are cookies, brownies, chips—a vegetable tray got in there somehow—and several kinds of different drinks.

Nixon clears his throat. “Do you want some eggnog?” he says from next to me, pointing at a large punch bowl.

“No, I do not,” I say. “I don’t understand it. But thanks,” I add, because I don’t want to be rude, especially with how weird things feel right now.

“You don’t understand…eggnog?” he says, shooting me a look.

“Correct,” I say as I peruse the cookie section.

Nixon gives me a skeptical look, and I sigh.

“Well, whatiseggnog?” I say, exasperated. “What is it trying to be? It’s basically like melted ice cream, but not as delicious. I’ve tried it multiple times thinking maybe I’ll finally understand what all the hype is about, but…” I shrug. “So far, nothing.”

Nixon opens his mouth to respond, but Sarah shakes her head at him.

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