Page 60 of Joy to Noel
I catch Madison’s eye as Clara talks about Clark finding her by the giant Christmas tree in Kansas City to confess his feelings, and I see something new glimmering in her gaze.
Is it envy? Discontentment? Longing?
Or am I just projecting my own emotions onto her?
Madison is uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the evening, and I’m content to sit back and listen to the natural flow of conversation between the friends. The evening dies down along with the embers of the fire, and everyone makes quick work of packing up the day’s supplies. We left our vehicles here at the end of the float path this morning and carpooled up to the start of the route, so Davis and Sydney will give Clark and Clara a ride to retrieve Clark’s truck. As we disperse to our cars, Clara and Madison talk in hushed tones before Clara gives Madison an extended hug goodbye.
The conflicted look on Madison’s face when she turns to me only adds to my own conflicted feelings.
What am I doing? What are we doing?
It’s a bad idea.
Right?
Madison’s pensive mood continues on the drive home, and I don’t have any spare mental energy to drum up conversation. I’m too busy trying to beat my gut instincts into submission.
We ride the few minutes home in tense silence.
The quiet remains a heavy blanket as we head inside the house. Madison kicks off her sandals at the door and sets down the bag holding her phone, sunscreen, and empty water bottle. She pauses to give Hamlet a “hello” scratch on his chest, then pads to the kitchen for a glass of water. The domestic familiarity of this scene between us makes my chest ache.
I follow her, standing a few feet away, watching her motions. She’s still wearing her swimsuit underneath a pair of cutoff jean shorts anda T-shirt, and her long hair is pulled up into a high ponytail. The coral strap of the halter top is visible above the collar of her T-shirt as she stands by the sink. The vision of her holding Clara’s hand to twirl their inner tubes around on the river dances through my mind. The memory of her teasing laugh is so tangible, I expect her to be grinning when she turns around.
Instead, there’s that same unfamiliar, guarded look in her eyes when she pivots toward me, leaning her back against the counter. Wisps of hair that escaped her ponytail frame her face, and her cheeks are perfectly sun-kissed.
The tether I had on my gut is stretched too far, too thin. It starts snapping strand by strand, adrenaline surging through my system as I stare at her. I shift my weight on the balls of my feet, clenching and unclenching my fists.
I don’t know what exactly changed in my expression, but Madison looks at me with concern.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. She takes in my fidgety energy. “What’s going on? Did you not like hanging out with everyone today? I thought you were having a good time, but was I wrong?”
Barking out a half-laugh, I take to pacing back and forth. “No. That’s not it. I did have a good time today. I enjoyed being with everyone.”
Rubbing a hand over my jaw, I glance at Madison. She frowns as she asks, “Is it . . . bad that you enjoyed it?” When I shake my head, she holds up exasperated hands. “Then what is it? Why are you acting all psycho-antsy?”
“Because—” I start but catch myself. Pausing my pacing, I turn to face Madison. She sassily raises an eyebrow, and that’s it for me. “Because I’m tired of convincing myself not to kiss you.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, and her other eyebrow raises in shock. The drumming in my chest is so hard, so fast, I think my heart could literally burst any second. I’m surprised it doesn’t explode out of my chest altogether when Madison takes a step closer to me.
So, so close.
Her chin is raised, her eyes are locked on mine as she murmurs, “Maybe you should stop convincing yourself.”
That’s all it takes to snap the final strand of restraint. I instantly step toward her, gather her face in my hands, and lean down to finally claim her lips with mine.
Madison meets my kiss with the same explosive intensity raging through me, zero to sixty with no warm-up lap. Like gunpowder and a spark, our lips meet with eruptive chemistry.
I’m immersed in her scent—eucalyptus and sunscreen and campfire smoke. Immersed and happily drowning, putting up no fight to save myself. I wantmoreof her passion,moreof the taste of her lips,moreof this volatile alchemy between us.
I make a conscious effort to slow us down, to relish the softness of her lips against mine, the smooth skin of her cheek beneath my thumb, the tangle of her hair between my fingers.
But she wraps her arms around my waist, hands roaming the muscles of my back, and my foot backs off the brake. Looping one arm around her back, I lift her onto the kitchen counter, bringing her lips to my level. She fluidly moves her hands from my back to my neck, pulling my mouth back to hers. I can’t hold back a moan at the sensation of her fingers against my scalp, her unrestrained passion almost a challenge.
All that feisty, sassy energy bundled up in Madison’s tiny frame reverberates in the way she kisses me, and I could so easily get lost in it forever. The power of her kiss could become my addiction, my energy source, my sanctuary.
So easily.
But the logical part of my brain claws its way back to consciousness, reminding me of why I fought against this attraction to Madison in the first place. Because it’snotactually easy or simple.
