Page 9 of 3 Stolen Kisses

I roll my eyes behind the branches and comply. And with the sun beating through the French doors that lead to my balcony, this room is quickly turning into a sauna. Not quite the winter wonderland Ali had in mind, but I can’t control the weather for her. If I could, I would.

She stops to put on a festive playlist anyway, the music drifting softly from the speakers on my TV. Songs about building snowmen and jingling all the way. And it’s funny—Ali has barely spent ten minutes in this apartment, but already she seems so at home. Weaving around the furniture like it’s second nature; using my gadgets as easily as if they were hers.

Like she’s meant to be here. With me.

Fuck, I’m delusional.

“It’s perfect,” Ali breathes, beaming up at the Christmas tree we bought at the farm. Well—rented. Apparently after the season is over, we return it in its pot, and it goes back into the soil until next year. Eventually, once it’s done its time, the tree will retire to a patch of forest—a fact that made Ali sniffle with joy. God, she’s soft.

Though she eyes the tree with something like envy now as she crouches down, rummaging through the shopping bags for string lights. “You know, even this plant is allowed to work outside the home. This tree has more freedom than I do.”

“It doesn’t have legs,” I point out, but Ali huffs and blows a stray lock of hair from her eyes. It slipped out of her messy bun an hour ago, and it’s been haunting me ever since. Want to wind those glossy black strands around my knuckles; want to tug on them until her lips part.

“You’re missing the point.”

“So I am.” My knees crack as I squat beside Ali, sifting through the bags too. The box of string lights is buried at the bottom of a canvas tote, and I hand it over with a wink. It’s so freeing being here together like this, not fretting about security every single second.

We’re safe here. Private.

Alone.

“Charles—I mean, your dad mentioned something the other day about a work contract for you. Some big designer getting in touch? That could be something, right?”

The sun flares against the glass as I push to my feet again, and I cross to the balcony doors to push one open. Better to coax in a breeze and chase away this stifling heat.

Ali sucks on her teeth, standing too as she unravels the knotted string lights. “Modeling,” she mutters, with as much distaste as if she’d been offered a job scooping up radioactive waste. And I know Ali doesn’t have a problem with models, doesn’t think badly of the profession really, but after everything that happened with her mother…

Guess it makes sense. Who’d want to follow in the footsteps of the person who rejected you? Who threw you away and resented you for ‘ruining’ her stick-thin body?

Even if Aliisone of the most beautiful young women alive, even if she does make strangers literally stop in their tracks, mouths hanging open as she passes… that doesn’t mean she needs to take the obvious road.

Christ, I thought the fella working the Christmas tree farm was going to swallow his own tongue when he saw her, especially when she started bouncing on her toes with excitement.

Because the thing is… Ali has no idea what kind of effect she has on people. Notreally.She hasn’t been allowed out in public enough to properly notice, and she’s not vain enough for it to occur to her independently. She thinks she’spretty enough.Averagely nice to look at.

Meanwhile hordes of men she’s never met counted down the days to Ali’s eighteenth birthday online. Fuck, I hope she never finds out about that. Those assholes had no business coveting her when she was so young.

“Can I plug these in somewhere?”

I point her at an outlet behind the tree, head spinning, sick with guilt. Because I can comfort myself with the fact thatIdidn’t notice Ali like that until a year ago, I can tell myself all the excuses I like, but the fact is, this girl is still way too young for me. I’m still a creep for even noticing her at all.

Seventeen years. There are seventeen years between the two of us. I’m almost old enough to be her—

“Saxon?”

Scrubbing one palm down my face, I drag my brain back into gear. Force myself to stop spiraling and focus. “Yeah?”

Ali’s wrapped the string light around the bottom two-thirds of the tree, but she’s struggling to reach the higher branches. As she strains, her arms stretching overhead, her red t-shirt rides up and shows a taut strip of bare navel.

I can see her belly button. Can see the faint jut of her hip bone.

Kill me now.

“Will you help me with this?”

Shit. I tear my gaze away, and I guess my body’s paying better attention than my brain, because I’m already striding across the rug, already taking the string lights from her hands, already reaching up to wind them around the topmost branches. And Ali’s trapped between the tree and my chest, so delicate, her body heat blending with mine, but neither of us mention how close we’re standing now. Neither of us mention the way my chest heaves, brushing up against her with every inhale. If I’m not careful, my ragged breaths will knock her forward.

“You being so big comes in handy sometimes,” Ali says, her voice shaky.

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