His fingers gently glide over my right cheekbone, then my left, lingering just a little.
I want to smile. Or say thank you. Or recapture the playfulness of just a few seconds ago, which is rapidly transitioning into something . . .
Not playful.
His expression is all business as he goes about brushing the ice crystals off my face, but when his palm sweeps over my lower face, I swear he seems to cradle my jaw, just for a second. The way he traces his fingertips over my eyebrows is just as gentle.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. Not once. Not until he lowers his hand, his fingertips brushing over my lips at the very moment his gaze lifts to mine.
It feels like an electric shock.
The touch of his fingers on my lips, the heat of his gaze, the weight of his body pinning mine to the ground . . .
Somehow all of those combined is creating the most intense, unexpectedly carnal moment of my life.
My eyes flutter in confusion. No, that can’t be right. “Carnal” isn’t a word I associate with Mark. Or at least I haven’t before now.
My eyes drop to his mouth. He has such a full bottom lip. How’ve I never noticed that before?
Mine’s not that full. Which he now knows, because he’s touching—
No, not anymore.
Mark slowly moves his hand away from my face and I bite my lip hard to stop from asking him to keep touching me.
He gets into a sitting position, hauling me up beside him. Neither of us says anything for a long, awkward moment. Then he finally looks at me.
“Sorry.”
I study him, trying to read him, but he’s retreating again. This is neither the boyishly happy Mark nor the seductive Mark with the heated gaze that I swear I caught a glimpse of.
“For?” Damn, my voice is breathy.
“For the fight last night,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “And for . . .” He gestures to the snow behind us, where our bodies left indentations.
“Forgiven.”
He studies me the same way I’m studying him, even as he pulls his glove back on. “For both?”
I shrug and pack a ball of snow between my hands. “I mean . . . it kind of sucks. About last night, I mean. This thing with the exes—it’s important for me to see it through, and I guess I always thought what was important to me was also important to you. I thought that was kind of a best-friend rule.”
He exhales and stares straight ahead at the steadily falling snow. “You’re right.”
I cup my ear and lean in. “Hmm?”
He pushes a wet gloved hand against my face. “Shut it. You know you’re right. I’m not going to pretend to get on board with believing this one-true-love-before-Christmas crap, but . . . if you need someone to talk to about this nonsense, I don’t want you going to anyone else.”
I purse my lips. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”
“I have my moments.”
“You do. This”—I gesture at the two of us sitting in the snow—“wasn’t one of them.”
“You used to love snowball fights.”
“I still do, just not when there’s only two people and I have zero chance of winning.”
Mark swipes a gloved hand over his reddening nose. “I don’t know. I’m finding I kind of like it with just the two of us.”
My breath catches, even as I tell myself to get a grip. He doesn’t mean it like that. He just means right here, in this moment . . .
Hell, I have no idea what Mark means.
And that’s odd. We may be different, but we get each other. I’ve always been able to read him, and he me. But I’m not at all sure we’ve been reading each other correctly for the past few days.
“Where’s your scared dog?” I ask to get us to safer territory as I scan the yard.
“Your ninny dog is curled up by the fireplace, wanting nothing to do with the snow.”
“Did you know?” I asked, tipping my head up and letting the snowflakes fall gently on my face. “About the storm?”
“I heard people talking about it at the restaurant, but I didn’t know it was going to be this bad. Thought it was just them hoping to get a day off work.”
“The restaurant closed?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. No point in making the employees trudge in when most of the town won’t bother to go out.”
“Sorry. Guess your Christmas by the Bayou pasta dish will have to wait to make its debut.”
“Guess so,” he says shoving to his feet. “What about you? The snow cancel your plans for going into the city?”
“Thoroughly.”
Mark extends a gloved hand, and I take it with both of mine, letting him haul me to my feet. The bulk of our snow clothes makes us awkward, and I slam into him, my gloved hands still cupping his.
I glance up, and he looks down. “What about your list? The guy who lives in the fancy penthouse?”
I shrug and smile. “Guess my meeting with Stephen wasn’t meant to be.”
Mark nods, but neither of us moves away, and once again I have that strange, forbidden feeling that I want to keep touching him. And not with these damn gloves, but skin to skin, flesh to flesh.
I take a step back, then tilt my head. “How’d you know Stephen lived in a penthouse?”
“You told me.”
I frown. “Not recently I haven’t. Maybe back when he and I were dating, but that’s been years.”
Mark turns away. “I dunno, Kell. Guess that detail just stuck with me. Don’t make it weird.”
I let him off the hook as I follow him back toward the back porch, but now my mind is racing. Come to think of it, Mark always does seem to remember an awful lot about my relationship life. How long I dated each guy, and when. How and why we broke up. And, apparently, where they lived.
He pauses, kicking around in the snow until he comes up with my shovel, which has already become reburied by fresh snow.
“We’ll finish your garage faster together.”
“What about yours?”
“Done. I’ll do it again later tonight.” He retrieves his own shovel from the porch and heads toward my garage door.
“You don’t have to help me,” I say, following him through the now knee-high snow.
“Noted,” he says.
Then he starts shoveling without another word. I do the same, starting at the opposite side, until half an hour and much arm soreness later, we meet in the middle.
And by middle, I mean he did about three-quarters, but let it be stated for the record that he’s much bigger.
“Thanks,” I say, a little out of breath, as we survey our (his) handiwork.
“Anytime.”
“Come inside,” I say, nodding my head toward my back door. “I’ll make us a late lunch to thank you.”
“Better idea,” he counters. “You come to my place, and I’ll make us a late lunch.”
“But—”
“Kelly, I’ve had your cooking. The best thank-you you can give me is not to subject me to it.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. Do you have materials for a hot toddy?”
“Pretty sure I can rummage something up,” he says, lifting his shovel to his shoulder and turning toward his house. “A boozy beverage is probably the only way I’ll get through the awful holiday movie you’re going to make me watch.”
A snowy afternoon. With adult beverages. And Christmas movies. And my dog.
And Mark.
I follow after him, feet frozen, face numb, and heart so full I don’t even know what to do with myself.
Kelly Byrne’s Ex List: Version Six