Page 70 of Mad About Yule

Hope leads me around the store, showing off scented lotions and creams, coin purses and handbags, and all sorts of fussy items I can’t name. I try to pay attention, I swear. But it isn’t easy to keep my focus off of her: the shape of her as she walks, her delicate fingers pointing out objects, the way she has nothing but enthusiasm for every artist she showcases in this store.

“I still don’t understand why your art isn’t on this wall.” I nod at the blank space on the back wall, a glaring omission in the crowded store as though she’s subconsciously made room for her artwork.

“It’s complicated.”

“Sounds pretty simple to me. Slap a price tag on some of your paintings and hang them up.”

Sarcastic laughter bubbles out of her. “So simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” She looks around as if the nearby assortment of tiny clay moose might help her explain. “My art isn’t for everybody.”

“You’ll never be able to pleaseeverybody. Some people won’t be pleased no matter what you do, and you’ll just make yourself smaller and smaller.”

“People will talk about it, and dissect it, and you saw the other day—the ones with a negative opinion always have the loudest voice.”

“You care too much about what people think.” From her art, to the festival, to who and how she dates, other people’s opinions have too much sway in her life.

She scowls up at me. “I can always count on you for a blunt hot take.”

“Hey.” I take her by the elbow and pull her closer. She’s still got the scowl on, but she rests her hands on my chest, so it’s a win. “I’m just saying, do what makesyouhappy. Bring all that art you’ve got locked away in your apartment out into the light. Give people a chance to love you.”

Her brow furrows at the same time my stomach drops like somebody pushed me out of an airplane.

“Your art. Give people a chance to love your art.” Man, I’m getting as bad as she is with blurting things out. “It should be in here.”

“People might hate it.”

She whispers the words almost like she doesn’t want me to hear her deepest fear. I hug her to me and stroke her back, wanting to soothe any way I can.

“I’m no artist. I’ve never shared a vulnerable piece of me like that with anybody. But I know passion when I see it. You can feel your love for your art in every brushstroke.” I drop my voice lower. “Don’t settle for less than what you really want just to make someone else happy.”

My mom flashes in my mind, and I remember all the ways I’m settling to makeherhappy, but this isn’t about me right now.

I point at the blank space above us. “You should put one of your paintings right there. With a big price tag in the corner.”

Her smile grows wider little by little, lighting me up like one of her bright paintings come to life. “I think you missed your calling. You should have been a Little League coach.”

A light scent of citrus wraps around us, and I fight the urge to press my face against her neck to breathe it right from the source. I’ve never known this kind of yearning for someone right in front of me before. I think about her all the time, and now that I’m with her, even that isn’t enough.

I lightly trace one palm down her back until my hand rests on her hip. She looks up at me, and I’m pretty sure neither of us is thinking about Little League anymore. We have nothing close to privacy in her store, with its glass storefront and an open doorway that looks straight into the bakery. I know she doesn’t want to be on display…but I don’t want to let her go, either.

I can show some restraint. My hands aren’t listening, though. One skims up her arm and over her shoulder to rest where it meets her neck, my thumb grazing her pulse point. The other hand is locked on her hip, but that’s almost worse, since that hand has no intention of going anywhere.

Hope’s hands are equally wayward, caressing my chest in a way that makes me wish I weren’t wearing several layers of clothes. Every time her fingers move, her goal of zero PDA feels further and further away. She might be rethinking that goal, too—her eyes watch my mouth like she’s ravenous.

“Griffin.”

My name on her lips unravels all my good intentions.

Our mouths meet, and fireworks explode in my brain. A chorus of angels belt out Hallelujah. Last night’s kisses were a slow torture as we felt each other out. Tonight cranks that up to eleven, a tangle of hot breath and ready mouths, hands exploring because we’re racing against time.

How can someonetastelike sunshine? She’s so sweet, with a hint of citrus, like lemonade on a bright summer day. That knock to the head really did a number on me, but I can’t help it. She’s delicious, and I want to eat her up.

My breath comes out a soft moan over that tempting thought. I hold her close, storing away the feel of the curve of her lower back, the scoop of her waist. One of her hands fists my shirt at the back of my neck, pulling me closer. As if I’m going anywhere.

When she sighs against my mouth, I’m lost.

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