Page 59 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
But what doesthismean, exactly?
It means shut up and surrender.
Well. Who am I to argue with such a commanding inner voice? I’m Sara Hathaway, the woman who’s dreamed of Three Fuller’s kisses for half her life. And the decade between our last real kiss and this one only stoked the heat inside me.
What happened at the Christmas tree farm doesn’t count. Three was coerced by the deputy then. But no one’s prompting us now, and the darkness frees me to be a little wild. A little risky.
As he lifts his hand to cup my jawline, I draw in a sharp breath and his mouth slides along my ear. My name is warm on his lips.
“Sara,” he whispers.
“Please,” I whisper back.
His mouth feathers across mine—a gentle hint at what’s to come—and my heart leaps in my chest. His lips are both familiar and new. Testing and tested and lighting a fuse inside me. With agasp, my mouth crashes into his, and I’m greedy and drowning in the heat of this kiss. Soon his hands are in my hair, tangled and twisting as his lips slant over mine.
In the darkness, I can’t see a thing, including the potential mistake. All I know is I’m fizzing, sizzling, about to burst into?—
ZZT! ZZT! ZZT!
The bulb above us pops and flickers. I’m so startled I almost fall out of Three’s lap. But he wraps his arms around me, holding my body in place through the series of rapid flashes.
Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark.
When the room finally lands on light, my protective shield is officially gone.
“The light’s back on!” I blurt, in an Oscar-winning performance of Captain Obvious. “We have to find a way out.” But before I can lunge even two feet toward the wall, the lightbulb sputters and dies again.
“NO!”
“Are you all right?” Three asks, his breaths coming heavy.
By way of answer, I begin to stammer. “That was … you were … I should … maybe we should …”
I let my voice trail off so Three can finish the sentence, but the only thing coming from him is heavy breathing. And more heavy breathing. The spell is definitely broken.
No more kissing for me and Three.
I was just scared with a side dish of crying, and Three was trying to comfort me. Then we got a littletooclose, and the memory of that Humboldt Farms kiss we shall not speak of popped into my head—not to mention all of our kisses from ten years ago.
Three Fuller had some pretty sweet moves when he was nineteen, but the man’s next-level now. He was taking his time, mouth hovering over mine, until he swept every rational thought right out of my head like a gorgeous man-broom.
So I absolutely can’t let that happen again, right? At least not tonight. Not until we’re out of this room and able to engage in anon-stammering, non-panting, adult conversation about what all this means.
“I think I’m going to try the lightbulb again,” I say, just to have something to do. “Maybe that first attempt to tighten the connection wasn’t enough. Maybe we need toloosenthe bulb first,thentighten it.”
Three stops his heavy breathing long enough to let out what sounds like a cough. Or a scoff. Either way, I can’t just stand here doing nothing. I’m giving this a shot. So I drag a crate over beneath the spot where I estimate the dead bulb is dangling. Yes, Three was able to just stand there on his own two feet when he tried to fix the light, but I need a bit of a boost.
Climbing up onto the box, I feel around until I find the lightbulb, and accidentally bat the thing so it sways in the dark. Catching it in my hand again takes me a moment.
“Careful,” Three says, as I begin to unscrew the bulb.
“Of course, I’m going to be care—” That’s when the bulb slips free from the socket and out of my hand, before it crashes to the floor.
Crap.
There’s a long moment of silence during which I quietly mourn the death of our only lightbulb. Then Three finally speaks. “You’re wearing socks.”
“Umm, yes.” I nod. “But why is that relevant?”
