I growled lowly. “What does that mean for this dumb game you’re playing?”
He smiled. “It means that if you can’t find somebody in the three very decent options I’ve given you, you have to kiss me.”
It took some effort to keep my face passive and my blush absent from my cheeks. I wasn’t sure I succeeded. Miles began searching the room once more.
“Let's see…my last pick. I’d better make it good. How about that guy?”
I looked at Miles and then at the man he motioned to, who was very much in his middle age and very much sweating by the fire. I hesitated. No. I most certainly did not want that guy. But was it a better alternative than kissing Miles Taylor on a Christmas vacation? No. But…
“Yuuup. He’s the one.”
A smile grew on his face before he released me and began to move away. “Okay, I’ll go get him for you.”
My hand shot out in a panic, grabbing the sleeve of his coat and pulling him back toward me. Not allowing myself to think, I took aim and closed my eyes. His lips were much softer than I had remembered from our fumbled kiss on the first night. For a moment, we just stood there, our lips pressed together. I had never been the type of girl to kiss much in public, and at first, I was very aware of the room around us—the eyes that might have been watching. Speaking of eyes…I opened mine a peek and found him staring at me. I jolted and began to pull away, but Miles stepped forward into my space, his hand at my back, increasing the pressure of our lips until mine became pliable. Moldable.
Ever so slowly, Miles drew my body closer until we were pressed together. With one hand lightly at my neck, his thumb brushed gently over my jaw. This time, my mouth opened to his, and he responded instantly. His lips toyed with mine, pulling and playing…teasing. And then…he wasn’t teasing any longer. His other hand wound its way to my back, pulling me close until there was no space between us. By this time, my brain had caught up and was flashing red lights, telling me to slow down. Pull over. Get out from under his lips.
In a state somewhere between morbid curiosity and satisfaction, I nestled closer. I curled into his warmth. I needed to stop this. I hadn’t intended for it to be like this. The mortification of facing him after a kiss like this was more than my mind could fathom. But my body begged for just another second. His chest pounded beneath my hands as they wound their way up to his shoulders. Our kiss deepened as I felt his hand at the back of my neck, sending tingles down my spine as he lightly gripped my hair. We were fake dating. I could blame this all on that. People were watching. It was helping our cover. Glenn was probably watching. My family was watching. They needed to see this. I leaned in for one last second, feeling his strong body against mine just a bit longer before my brain overruled my body, and I stepped out of his arms.
Holy crap.
Miles blinked and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. I glanced away, flustered by my reaction to him. I didn’t know where to look, so obviously I looked everywhere but directly at Miles. My shirt had gotten twisted somewhere in our…exchange…so I tugged it back down. Miles seemed as lost for words as I was. From the corner of my eye, I watched him run a hand through his hair. We both watched silently as my mom and Russ began heading our way.
As if by mutual agreement of not wanting to talk to anybody, he slowly pulled me back out onto the dance floor. The tune was a jazzy version of “Jingle Bell Rock,” but we kept to our own beat, which was basically tone-deaf and a bit…muddled.
“As far as I can tell, there was only one problem with that kiss,” Miles said finally, his voice a bit deeper than usual.
I glanced up at him warily, acutely aware of his fingers pressing into me, absently toying with my shirt at my lower back. “What?”
A broad smile crossed his face. “You misjudged the mistletoe by at least thirty feet.”
“What?” I whirled around, looking up toward the rafters where I had just kissed Miles. He was right. There was no mistletoe. Looking around, I spotted it under doorways and windows and a few strategic and obvious places around the center of the room. But I couldn’t have been farther away from the green parasitic plant if I had tried.
“Was that just a warm-up for you? Should I move us closer for round two?”
“It counts,” I said indignantly. For some reason, I had the urge to laugh but had to stifle it.
He grinned, tilting his head toward me. “It doesn’t.”
“It does,” I insisted.
“You know, for such a rule follower, you’re sure willing to sell your lying, cheating soul for this.”
The laugh I was trying so hard to keep hidden bubbled out of me just then. I drew my hand up to my mouth in an attempt to stifle it, but it was not meant to be. Life for me was dangerous when I had so many emotions and so much blood currently coursing through my body.
A smile lit Miles’s face as he watched me, no doubt pleased at the effect of his words. I did my best to stifle my reaction.
“It counts,” I said finally.
“It so does not. We’re gonna need a redo before this week’s over.”
And in case you were wondering, those were the words on repeat in my stupid, dumb head as I fell into a restless sleep later that night.
NINETEEN
"Good-night, my-” He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.
Charlotte Bront? - Jane Eyre.
“So, I just squeeze it?”
It was 7 am the next morning. I was standing in a barn next to Miles, his dad, and a 1500-pound Holstein cow who kept whacking me on the side of my head with her tail. Miles moved to stand between me and the tail and handed me a small plastic cup with a squirt of chocolate syrup inside, which seemed to be some sort of satanic ritual with the Taylor family.
“Squeeze and pull.” He mimicked the downward squeezing motion again with his hands.
I took a deep breath and sat on the stool, staring at the plump udder, now at eye level, in dread.
“What’s her name?” I asked, stalling shamelessly.
Jack Taylor laughed. “Depending on her mood, we call her a lot of things, but the polite one we tell people is Snowflake.”
“Hey, Snowflake,” I whispered as I leaned in closer, my hand inching toward the lady’s privates. “Sorry about this.”
Miles chuckled as he squatted down next to me. “You’re doing her a favor. I promise, she’s used to it.”
My hand stalled, so he took it and placed it on the cow. “Now just squeeze it gently and pull it toward your cup.” He held his own cup filled with chocolate syrup under a different teat and squeezed, easily filling his cup with frothy white milk.
“Show off,” I muttered.
“Chicken,” he countered.
I repositioned my hand to where it felt the most comfortable. It had a soft, rubber-like feel that was slightly disturbing. I squeezed and pulled. Nothing happened. I tried again. Same.