Page 73 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
Luke Hawthorne is kissing me. Luke Hawthorne’s arms are around me. Luke Hawthorne’s lips are tangling with my own, while his fingers play in my hair.
This is—God.
Did something happen? Some asteroid hit the earth? And I’m in heaven? Has carbon monoxide filled the air of the Montreal Grand Hotel, and I am unconscious, my final thoughts on earth about a fantasy that can never happen?
Because this can’t be real.
This shouldn’t be real.
This—oh, God.
The man is on medication. He was literally hit on the head. He was staring at snowflakes in wonder, scooping one up from the heavens and giving it to me, beaming as if he’d pulled down the moon.
He’s not himself.
I close my lips. Luke whines against me, as if he instantly misses me, as if the fact that me not kissing him causes him pain, when of course, the fact can only be ridiculous.
Because if I know one thing in the world it’s that I’m not supposed to be kissing a Hawthorne.
I squeeze my eyes. He doesn’t know who I am. He would never kiss me if he knew.
I pull away. His grip remains on my waist.
“Luke,” I say, my tone firm.
He drops his hands at once.
“God, I’m sorry. I-I accosted you. I-I thought—” Red spreads over his face, dipping toward his torso, and anguish sits in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re in this room to take care of me, not to—”
He doesn’t finish the rest of the sentence. I’m grateful. There’s already too much awkwardness in the room without adding actual words.
He steps away, and I hate the pocket of air between us. I hate that there’s coolness, where there was warmth. I hate that there’s pain where there was pleasure. I hate everything.
My body trembles, as if desperate to reach him, desperate to run my fingers over his muscular planes, to smooth away the pain and shaking, to tell him I didn’t mean to stop, didn’t mean to separate us.
But all the reasons why we should not kiss pile up between us instead, and from the sorrow on Luke’s face, he sees them too, as clearly as if they were composed of actual letters and the flashing red signs found on the dangerous sections of some highways, when a wrong move might flatten a crew of construction workers.
“If circumstances were different...”
Hope shines in his eyes, and his face is brighter than before.
“What would happen if circumstances were different?” He asks, narrowing the distance between us. He moves slowly, eyes on me, like I’m a deer that might leap from reach at any moment.
But the thing is, there’s nowhere else I’d rather than be than in his arms. He is no predator. He is Luke Hawthorne, handsome and kind, talented and strong. He belonged to the same town I did. And he pulled himself up with the same grit I did.
He is amazing.
“There are things I haven’t told you,” I say.
“Oh.” His eyes soften. “Secrets you mean?”
I tense, and my eyes lower to the ground, guilt swirling and strengthening, moving from dangerous hurricane category to more dangerous hurricane category to even more dangerous hurricane category.
I give a miserable nod. I should confess them all, but I’m not ready. I’m not ready for disappointment and confusion to line his face, where there was tenderness.
