Page 41 of The Holidate Season

I freeze, glancing up at the porch while easing my butt onto my heels.

Serena smiles. The snow-melting kind of smile.

“I shouldn’t be here.” I shake my head. “I’m an asshole. What I said … it was terrible. And your husband died—”

“On Christmas.” She walks down the porch steps in her fluffy boots, leggings, and red sweater. “I had to let him go on Christmas.” Her hand reaches toward me. “Take it.”

I stare at her hand, then I take it, lumbering to my feet with most of the photos and letters clutched in my other hand.

Serena’s dark hair falls behind her shoulders when she gazes up at me.

“What now?” I say.

She lifts onto her toes until her lips are a breath away from mine. “Now … don’t let go.” Her lips bend into a grin as they touch mine.

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