I stared at his hand warily.
“I could go grab Glenn, if you’d prefer,” he whispered. His fingers wiggled, indicating I should allow him to pull me up, which I did, but when I went to remove my fingers from his hand, he only held mine tighter. I knew he was supposed to be my boyfriend tonight, but watching my mom felt like a punch in my gut. I didn’t want to act anymore. I was too disheartened to care about much at the moment. But I could see Glenn and his parents on the other side of the room, watching us, so I forced myself to snuggle up tighter against Miles’s side and allowed him to lead me to the dance floor. A handful of other couples were dancing around us. I was grateful Russ and my mom had sat out and were currently laughing with another older couple from a neighboring cabin.
Once on the floor, we turned to face each other. My head barely topped his shoulder. My limbs felt heavy and unsure. I had gone dancing with roommates in college a couple of times, and that had been enough for me. My body didn’t know quite how to move to the beat, but thankfully, the song was slow, and Miles didn’t seem to be an expert either. I held my other hand out, expecting this to go how I was taught in middle school, with my right hand in his left and our other hand at the waist. Miles must have missed that school lesson.
His lips twitched, but he ignored my hands. “I didn’t realize you were a ninety-year-old woman, Carrots.”
Without warning, I found myself pressed completely against his stomach, his hands circling my waist with nowhere for mine to go except up—to those dang shoulders again. My fingers clung to his muscles there, feeling them move every so often as he led us in a very slow sway across the room. My chest was literally smooshed against him, and I wondered if he could feel my pounding heartbeat. I tried to gather my wits and bring us back to some sort of safe ground.
“If we’re going to be fake dating, can your fake girlfriend request that you stop all the vegetable tray references? Even if it’s just for one blessed week?”
“Well, you can sure try, Celery Stick.”
I shook my head, a smile sneaking across my lips as I felt the weight of the night slowly leaving my body.
“Alright,” Miles began, “the mistletoe make-out is the last thing to cross off for tonight.”
“It did not say make-out.”
He pulled away to stare down at me, his eyebrows furrowed in mock confusion. “Pretty sure it did.”
“Miles.”
“Pickles.”
Both of our noses wrinkled.
“Too far?” Miles asked.
“Yeah.”
“My bad. Anyway, let’s plan our make-out—"
“Kiss,” I insisted, swallowing hard. I had been hoping that particular bingo square would have been blown up and sunk by another battleship by now. But perhaps I was thinking of a different game.
He leaned down conspiratorially and whispered, “There’s mistletoe everywhere. Should I just set you down on top of the table and go for it? Should we do it in front of Glenn?”
Fire heated my face. I felt light and giddy at the same time I felt my walls go back up. It felt so wrong to be talking like this with him. I didn’t understand how he could be so casual. In two more weeks, our next semester would start, and we’d be back to normal at school, him still annoying me but, this time, with kisses and dances and touching between us. It wasn’t good for anybody.
“Or I could pull you into a dark corner?” He went on as though he had no thought in the world about our close work proximity nine months out of the year.
“How about a nice, friendly kiss on the cheek?” I countered. “One where we can go back to school and face each other with our heads held high, knowing that we chose the high road.”
His mouth split into a grin. “The high road? What road do you think I’m offering you right now?”
I pushed lightly against his laughing chest. “Maybe I’ll just have my mistletoe kiss with somebody else.”
I didn’t really mean that. The thought of asking Russ to give me a fatherly kiss on the cheek under a sprig of mistletoe was definitely out of the question. After some groveling, I was pretty sure Glenn would be game if I asked, but obviously, I couldn’t—and definitely wouldn’t—do that. But for whatever reason, I didn’t want Miles to think he had me so easily. Maybe I could kiss a stranger. There was a small handful of unattached men at the lodge. I read books about heroines kissing strangers all the time. It could be exciting. Maybe even romantic.
“You’d fake cheat on me?” His voice sounded incredulous.
“It would just be a friendly cheek kiss,” I insisted. “It’s how they greet each other in France and Italy. It wouldn’t be cheating.”
His eyes narrowed, considering me while I writhed under his scrutiny. My gaze caught on his full bottom lip before I swallowed and tore my eyes away. Miles’s problem was that he was too attractive for his own good—and mine. But that was fine. There were lots of attractive men in this world. I could handle it. He could be platonically handsome. I didn’t need to hyper-focus on that. Now I just needed to convince myself that kissing a random stranger would be preferable to the guy currently holding me in his arms.
A challenge lit his eyes. “Okay. But I get to pick.”
I’m sure there were only two or three unattached males in this room, so I didn’t think having him pick would be detrimental. The song ended, and in a flash, he led me off the dance floor. When we settled against a wall, he leaned in close, arm around my shoulders, as we scanned the room.
“What about him?”
He motioned toward a large cowboy with a handlebar mustache and a ten-gallon hat, sitting on the stage, playing a guitar version of “Little Drummer Boy”.
“Who’s that?”
“That’s Frank. Don’t get your cowgirl hopes up. He’s actually a plumber in town, but he moonlights as Frank the Cowboy for the guests here a few nights a week. But I happen to know he’d be very okay with a mistletoe kiss.”
I swallowed. “That’s quite the mustache.”
“It’s a specific type of woman who can hold onto a man like that. You up for it?”
“I don’t think I’m woman enough for Frank the Cowboy.”
“Poor Frank. Strike one.”
He began scanning the room once more. I tried very hard not to notice the feel of his arm around my shoulder. It felt so casual and yet territorial at the same time. And it was beginning to mess with my head.
“How about your ex-boyfriend glaring daggers at me right now?”
I followed his gaze back to Glenn, who glowered our way for a long moment before turning his attention elsewhere. Poor Glenn. If there were any other single girls here, I had no doubt he would be dancing up a storm right in front of my nose.
“I think he’s more in the mood to meet you out by the flagpole.”
“I guess we could go see if he’d be up for some kissing afterward.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Okay, that’s strike two.”
“What happens on strike three?”
“You’re out.”