Page 26 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
He glances over at me.Calm, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers stop tapping against the table.“Back then,” I add.“Remember our first rules?No full names.Not too many personal details.And we still shared so much more.Not everything, but still.Definitely not the basics”
He nods once.“Could’ve changed things.Maybe you wouldn’t be here if we did.”
There’s a beat.I don’t know why I say the next part.I don’t think I meant to.
“Maybe I would’ve come sooner.”
My mouth closes around the last word like it just betrayed me in front of company.Heat floods my face, crawls down my neck.The air in the room feels suddenly thinner.
Oh no.
His head lifts slightly, and that look—slow and sharp and completely unreadable—spreads across his face like heat.Something shifts in his eyes, darkens them.
I wave a hand, blood rushing in my ears.“I meant here.Pine Creek.Not like… not like some big emotional gesture.Definitely not a euphemism.”
“Right,” he says, totally not helping.His voice has dropped to that dangerous register that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
“Obviously, I wasn’t… like…coming, coming.I meant… I could’ve visited sooner.”The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other in their desperation.
“Totally clear.”There’s a hint of amusement in his tone.Or maybe hunger?Both?
I groan into my hands.My skin feels too hot against my palms.“Someone needs to unplug me.”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed.The movement pulls his shirt taut across his chest.And he’s trying so hard not to smile, which makes it worse.My stomach drops.
“It’s fine,” I mutter.“This is fine.I’m a grown woman who accidentally propositioned her almost-ex, mid-pancake.”
He’s quiet a second, then says, “You think I’m your almost-ex?”
I freeze.
Because that voice.The way it drops when he’s about to say something that splits me open.I should’ve remembered this part.
I clear my throat.My fingers tap against my thigh, counting heartbeats that come too fast.“You’re my almost-something.We didn’t get far enough for an ex.”
He doesn’t argue.
And I hate how much that hurts.Like a paper cut, small but stinging, leaving a mark disproportionate to its size.
I gather our plates because I need to move.Do something.Put space between us before I completely unravel in this soft, syrup-scented kitchen.The ceramic feels cold against my suddenly overheated palms.
“You don’t have to wash everything,” he says as he stands up to dry them and put them away.
“I know.”The dish soap smells artificially sweet.Strawberry, maybe.Too cheerful for this moment.
“But you’re doing it anyway.”
“And you’re drying them.Even though you don’t have to.That’s our brand.”My voice aims for lightness but lands somewhere near brittle.
“What?Over-functioning and retreating from vulnerability?”
I snort.“Wow.Therapist much?”
“Yes, I’m therapized.”
Of course he is.
He continues, “Learned to deal with my own shadows.Became more resilient.Able to enjoy the happy moments even more.Still a work in progress though.Also… I once helped a dog who was afraid of wind chimes.I know avoidance when I see it.”
