Page 126 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
“Check his fiancée’s page,” he says, voice casual.
I blink.
Oh.
I tap the screen, scrolling quickly.
Jennie Sorino has changed her relationship status.
Engaged → Single.
My lips part.“Holy shit.”
Adam grins.“Merry Christmas, Chuck.”And when he laughs?It's low.Rough.Satisfying.
Then his hand slides to my jaw, thumb brushing once—slow and sure—like he remembers exactly where to touch to unravel me.My pulse stumbles.
From the floor, Dorothy lifts her head from her pink towel nest and gives us the deeply judgmental, deeply correct: finally.
“Foster,” he murmurs, laughter warm at the edges and hunger threaded low through it.“That was hot as hell.”
“Yeah?”My voice is barely a breath.“Good.”
His crooked and familiar smile appears, and he kisses me.
Not a dramatic dip.
Not a cinematic spin.
Not a Hallmark swoop where the snow falls perfectly on cue.
But ours.
Warm.
Certain.
Hungry without rushing.
His mouth is sure and steady and when my fingers catch in his shirt, he pulls me closer with a quiet, wrecked sound that lights up every nerve I have left.My hand slips into his hair.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the familiar shape of each other.
We break only when our lungs insist, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air, room glowing in quiet Christmas light.
My chest rises.Falls.Finds itself again.
My life is mine again.
My body is mine again.
My future is something I get to choose.
Tomorrow, I’ll check on the school nurse job.
I’ll call my grandfather.
I’ll tell my mom I'm not running anymore.
