Page 128 of Going Viral for Christmas
I lean down. Her breath trembles against my mouth. My hand hovers near her cheek, aching to touch.
And then?—
The temperature plummets. A sudden gust rips over the glass structure, rattling it like a warning. Candles flicker, and the moment shatters, leaving us suspended, our lips a breath apart, the world intruding before we collide.
“Come on,” I say, rising to stand. “We have one more stop.”
She protests, but I wrap the blanket from the picnic around Ava’s shoulders, and as I lead her back out into the cold, she yanks a pair of gloves onto her tiny hands.
The greenhouse lights flicker behind us as I guide her to the car, her gloved fingers brushing mine occasionally. Even her subconscious can’t make up its mind.
Her cheeks pink from the cold, she watches the frost sparkle on the windows, her lashes dewy and dark.
When we slide into the warmth of the SUV, she sighs and flexes her fingers over the heater vents.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “That was disgustingly romantic.”
“I know.” I grin, pushing the car into drive. “And I’m not done yet.”
Her expression is laced with suspicion and reluctant amusement.
We drive up a steep overlook, one of those hidden local spots you only know about if you’ve lived here or—like me—done an unhealthy amount of research.
At the top, the view opens up. City lights sparkle below, casting reflections on the lake in the distance.
“Okay,” she says, squinting out at the skyline. “This might actually be impressive.”
“Might?”
“Still debating.”
“The silence here is different,” I say. “It holds secrets.”
Her arm brushes mine. I don’t move.
“You did all this foronenight?” she asks, voice shaky.
“I did all this because I wantmorethan one night.”
Her pouty lips press together. They’re made for kissing. She catches the bottom one between her teeth, trying to hold something in—words, want. Both.
“I know the deal,” I say. “But I also know what I want. I want thewhole sarcastic, emotionally guarded, wildly brilliant you. And now that I know you want me too…well, prepare for my level up.”
“How in the world could you possibly–”
“Wait and see.” I reach across her legs and open the glove box to retrieve a tiny Bluetooth speaker.
Her eyes watch curiously as I cue up the premade playlist on my phone.
A few taps later, the unmistakable opening of “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” by REO Speedwagon fills the car.
“Oh my God,” she says, staring at me in horror. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” I say, deadly serious. “Get out of the car, Bells.”
“You did not cue up a power ballad.”
“I did. And I’m asking you to dance with me.”
