The Plight Before Christmas(43)

“Sure.” I hand her the bag of sugared gumdrops—the table cluttered full of Gingerbread house supplies—before adding the last of the roofing to the second floor of my gingerbread house. Ruby set up the table while she prepped dinner, demanding we make a house the old school way, ‘without the fancy kits they have nowadays.’ I rolled up my sleeves, ready for the challenge, and determined to win the grand prize—the first cup of snowman soup, which is apparently the world’s best hot chocolate.

Since we began constructing our houses, the friendly family competition seems to have kicked up a notch as I scan the faces of those at the table. Conner decided to pair up with Peyton—which prematurely ended with them both covered in icing—and Serena whisked them into the tub within minutes of their start. Allen disappeared just after shopping, and Brenden opted for a recliner nap with Wyatt. Erin decided to do some wrapping, which left the four of us remaining, Thatch included.

Whitney sits across from me, a tiny part of her pink tongue clamped between her teeth, her brows knit in concentration, her expression much the same as it was when we studied together in college. Hands busy, fiercely determined, she ignores her surroundings. With everyone distracted, I study her unabashedly while sinking into another memory of our beginning.

“Do you want to come in?” Whitney asks as we approach her apartment door.

“Maybe some other time,” I say, squeezing her hand.

“Okay, Casanova, what gives?” Whitney stops just outside her apartment door and turns to me expectantly.

“I wish you would stop calling me that,” I retort dryly. “And what do you mean what gives?”

“This.” She lifts our clasped hands. “This is what I mean. We’ve been on four dates, and all you’ve done is hold my hand.”

“For a girl who was certain she was just going to be another conquest for me, you sure this isn’t moving too fast?”

“I’m just wondering what the deal is.”

“Maybe I like holding your hand.” I shrug, and her nostrils flare in annoyance.

“I’m not like complaining or anything—”

“You clearly are. You want a kiss? That’s what you’re griping about?”

“Not if you don’t want to kiss me.”

“All right then.” I nod toward her door. “Goodnight.”

“But you do want to kiss me. I can tell. You stare at my lips all the time.”

“That’s because you gloss them up like a porn star. They’re kind of hard to ignore.”

She jerks her hand out of my grip. “Okay, I’m confused. Are you still pissed about the two dates I stood you up for—”

“Ah, so she finally admits she stood me up.”

“Are you trying to prove something here?” I fight the urge to survey her again in tattered jeans and an off-the-shoulder pink sweater. She had the good sense to ditch skirts due to the rapidly cooling weather, but her appeal is no less alluring.

“I’m not bitching about bases. I’d just like to know if you’re planning on stepping up to bat.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

“Or maybe I’m just wasting good lip gloss,” she mumbles, opening her purse and digging for her keys, “Trey Rhodes, my first kiss, in first grade, moved faster than you.”

“That so?”

“It’s so.” She pauses with a hand in her purse and blinks up at me. “So, what’s the holdup?”

“I’m getting to it. I heard you, Whitney, you want a kiss.”

“But not if you don’t want to.”

“Heard that part too.”

“Ugh.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you just messing with me?”

“I’m dating you.”

“So, we are dating?”

“Was that unclear?”

“And you want to kiss me.”

“Not right now.”

“Wow, you’re arrogant.”

“Because I don’t kiss on demand?”

“Because you think I’ll wait around forever for it.”

“Four dates is forever?”

“Jesus, forget it.” Retrieving her keys, she turns toward her door, her back to me. Unable to help myself despite my resolve, I step forward, pinning her against her front door, my body encasing hers. Inhaling her scent, I place my palm next to her head and lean in. Goosebumps erupt on her bare shoulder as I skim it with my lips. Her breath comes out in a whoosh before she turns her head, her eyes zeroing in on my lips. I can’t help my grin as I inch in, watching her chest rise and fall. “Ask me nicely, Whitney.”

“For a kiss? You want me to ask you nicely for a kiss?” Her chest pumps harder as I bend so our noses brush, barely.

“Yeah, for a kiss.”

“Look, pal, I don’t do mind control.”

“Or one-night stands, or mushrooms, or jazz music—”

“Because it’s not music,” she states as if it’s obvious.

“Uh huh, I heard you. You also, at times, use movie titles as a verb. You talk a lot. Very informative.”

“Someone has to try to fill the long silences. If you ask me, you don’t talk enough.”