Page 45 of Sweet Doe
"Come here," he says, taking my hand and leading me back to the couch. "Let's watch it together."
I let him guide me back to the cushion and pull me against his side as we turn our attention to the television. On screen, thousands of people are packed into Times Square, bundled up against the cold, all of them counting down to a new beginning.
"Asher," I say softly, not sure what I'm going to say until the words spill out. "What happens after midnight?"
"Whatever you want to happen." His hand finds my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone with infinite gentleness. "This can be the start of something new for us. Something real."
"It's already real." And the admission feels like it costs me everything. "That's what scares me."
"Don't be scared." His forehead rests against mine, and we're breathing the same air. "Be brave enough to want something extraordinary."
"Ten! Nine! Eight!" The crowd's voices fill the cabin, their excitement infectious even through the television speakers.
"Seven! Six! Five!"
Asher's eyes never leave mine, patient and hopeful and absolutely certain of what he wants.
"Four! Three! Two!"
I make my choice.
"One! Happy New Year!"
And I kiss him.
Not because I have to, but because it’s what I want. It’s what Ineedright now.
Chapter Fourteen
ASHER
The world outside looks like a painting. Clean and white, as if it’s been scrubbed of every sharp edge. The storm passed sometime during the night, leaving behind a powdery stillness that hangs in the air like a held breath. The sky stretches wide, unbroken above the trees, a color so blue it almost feels cruel. Pine branches bow under the weight of snow, sparkling in the cold light. Even the birds have gone quiet, as if the forest itself is watching.
So am I.
She’s standing in the middle of the clearing, squinting up at the sun, bundled in half my closet. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, hair tucked beneath a knit hat that’s too big for her, and her gloved hands are wrapped around the handle of an axe like it might bite. She shifts her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, planted in snow up to her shins. Everything about her is wrong for this. Too soft, fragile, and way too fucking beautiful, to be out here chopping wood. Yet in typical Sloan fashion, my sweet doe is out here trying anyway.
My chest tightens.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I call as I lean against a tree, arms crossed, watching the way her boots slip on the packed snow.
She turns just enough to glare over her shoulder. “I’m literally just standing here.”
“Yeah. Like Bambi on a frozen lake.”
She rolls her eyes, and I grin. That spark in her is back. The one I thought I’d lost when the fever nearly took her. I push off the tree and start toward her, trudging through snow that sucks at my legs like wet cement.
“Feet shoulder-width apart. Hips squared. Hands lower down on the handle. You’re too stiff.”
“If you mansplain firewood one more time, I’m going to bury this axe in your shin.”
I stop behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body even through all those layers. My hands settle on her hips without asking. She doesn’t flinch this time. Just mutters something under her breath that might be a curse.
“I’m not mansplaining,” I murmur, lowering one hand to guide her grip. “I’m teaching you.”
She barks out a laugh. Short and surprised. It punches warmth straight through my chest. I’d kill to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.
“Now swing.”
