Page 33 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Being couple-y. Sitting together. Casual touching. Inside jokes," I list.
"How do you practice inside jokes?" he asks.
"I don't know. We make outside jokes and bring them in?" I suggest weakly.
"That's not how jokes work," he says.
"Nothing about this is how things work," I point out.
"Fair point." He sits on my couch, patting the spot next to him. "Come practice being couple-y."
I sit, leaving a careful six inches between us.
"Couples don't sit like they're afraid of catching something," he observes.
"I'm not afraid—" I start.
He pulls me against his side, and suddenly I'm very aware of how solid he is. And warm. And he smells like motor oil and whatever soap he uses, which shouldn't be attractive but apparently my standards have gotten very specific.
"Better?" he asks.
"Different," I manage.
"Your heart is racing," he notes.
"How can you tell?" I ask.
"I can feel your pulse where you're pressed against me," he explains.
"That's very observant," I say.
"Or you're having a cardiac event," he suggests.
"It's probably the apple juice. Very stimulating, apple juice," I babble.
"We should work on your nervous talking," he says.
"I don't nervous talk," I protest nervously, talking.
"You're doing it right now," he points out.
"This is regular talking. Normal speed talking. Very standard talking," I continue, proving his point.
"Wren," he whispers.
"Yes?"
"Breathe."
I take a deep breath. Then another. The third one gets stuck because he's running his fingers through my hair, and my brain short-circuits.
"What are you doing?" I squeak.
"Practicing casual touching. Couples play with each other's hair," he explains, like he's conducting a science experiment.
"They do?"
"According to the internet, yes," he says.
