Page 41 of Snowbound
I’ve seen the hard edges she’s adopted for survival soften in the short time we’ve been with each other already.
“Lunch,” I say, with a casual shrug.
The Owen she used to know lived off boxed mac and cheese and frozen pizza. Her smirk is knowing, a tease. “You?”
I nod with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a taste for more adult things these days.”
She smiles and wraps her arms around herself like she’s still trying to protect herself. Is it me she’s afraid of? Or is it the vulnerability? Maybe it’s the part of her that still hasn’t decided if I’m safe to want.
I hope it’s that. Feckin’ hell, I hope it’s that.
You and me both, Em. You and me both.
“But, I have to admit,” I say, smiling, “I’ve never found a chicken nugget I didn’t like.”
She laughs, her eyes lighting up. “Oh god. Even those… fast food ones?”
I nod solemnly. “Especially those. If I can dip them into one of those tiny packets of sweet and sour sauce? Heaven.”
She shrugs, lips tilting. “Your Irish ancestors are turning in their graves. Eh, maybe nostalgia runs deep.”
The words hang between us, suspended in the air like something heavy and sweet and aching.
“Nostalgia runs deep,” I echo. “It does, doesn’t it?”
I glance up—her gaze has drifted to the mistletoe I strung above the doorway to her room. Her breath catches.
She’s catching on. Smart girl.
I nod, serious. “House rule. You don’t pass through one unless I decide what you owe.”
Her lips part. I stare as her breath hitches. My god, I love doing this to her.
“Well, that’s not fair.”
“No,” I say, my voice low, deliberate. “It’s not.”
I reach up and gently brush a curl behind her ear. My fingers linger. I do it with intention, savoring the way she shivers beneath my touch.
“I never said it was fair.”
I step in, close enough that her back meets the doorframe. She stares up at me with that look—half-terrified, half aching. The one that makes something inside me snap.
Her lips part. “So what’ll it be this time?”
“This time?” I murmur, leaning in. “A kiss.”
“Just a kiss? A boring old kiss?”
Just a kiss. That’s what I tell myself.
As if kissing her is anything but magical.
My voice is a bit husky when I lean in close. “I need to warm you up, don’t I?”
She swallows and tilts her head. Her eyes flicker, uncertain. I wonder if she still thinks of this as forbidden. If she stillhears the wordstepbrotherlike a curse. Thinks about the years we spent dancing around it, burying what we were under layers of guilt and expectation. Our parents. The fury. The judgment from people who never understood what it felt like to burn like this.
“Emma,” I whisper, sliding my finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
