Page 10 of Mashed Hearts
“Subtle,” Hope hisses at Jack.
“What? It was a dare! Tradition!” Jack defends, hands up. “Also, I’m a romantic.”
“You’re a menace,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. Can’t help it. My lips are still buzzing like I licked a nine-volt battery.
Ainsley leans over the arm of the couch, stage-whispering, “So, on a scale of ‘awkward middle-school spin-the-bottle’ to ‘porno soundtrack,’ where are we landing?”
“Shut up,” I laugh, shoving a pillow at her face.
Everyone then stands, and follow the smell of the fire pit.
Outside, Josh is skewering marshmallows with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. His shoulders are tense, flannel stretched across them in a way that should be illegal. Every time he turns the stick, the firelight catches the sharp line of his jaw, and I have to look away before I do something stupid. Like walk over there and lick the chocolate off of his fingers. Jesus, Kait. Chill.
He builds the first s’more with surgical precision—graham cracker, Hershey’s square, Reeces cup, perfectly golden marshmallow, top cracker. Then he turns and hands it to me like it’s a peace offering, knowing that I would be the one standing beside him.
“Old times,” he says, voice low enough that only I hear the rasp in it.
Our fingers brush. Sticky. Hot. My stomach does a triple axel.
I take a bite before I can say something dumb likemarry me. The chocolate melts on my tongue, and I swear I moan. Out loud. Beth chokes on her beer.
Josh’s eyes darken. “Good?”
“Shut up,” I mumble around graham cracker crumbs. He smirks—that half-smirk, half-dimple thing that used to live rent-free in my teenage fantasies—and goes back for more skewers.
Once we’ve each had our fills of s’mores, we migrate back inside into a lazy pile of blankets and half-eaten pizza, the fire popping and hissing like it’s gossiping about us. Someone dims the lights. Someone else queues upThe Officeholiday episodes because nothing says romance like Dwight in a santa hat.
I end up on the big sectional, wedged between Hope and a throw pillow that smells faintly of someones dog. Josh casually drops down on my other side without asking, thigh pressing mine as if it’s second nature to him, like we didn’t just make out in front of our friends.
Hope kicks my shin under the blanket. I ignore her.
On screen, Michael Scott is setting the office Christmas tree on fire. In real life, Josh shifts, arm stretching along the back of the couch behind me. Not touching. Just… there. His fingers brush the ends of my hair every time he laughs at the TV, and I’m hyper-aware of every single strand.
During the commercial break, Ainsley passes around hot cocoa spiked with Baileys. Josh takes a mug, then offers me the first sip. Our lips touch the same ceramic rim, and I swear the cocoa tastes like his mouth from earlier—chocolate and peppermint andhim. I hand it back too fast. He smirks into the steam, knowing that he still has an effect on me.
Beth catches it. Of course she does. “You two need to be separated?”
“Yes,” Micah says, deadpan, and the room loses it.
Josh’s hand drops from the couch back to my shoulder, thumb tracing idle circles through my sweater. It’s innocent. Mostly. Except my skin is on fire, and I’m pretty sure my heartbeat is audible over the TV.
The episode ends. Someone yawns. Another suggests bed. But nobody moves. The fire’s down to embers, casting long shadows that dance across Josh’s face. He’s staring at the screen, but I catch him sneaking glances at me every few seconds.
Finally, Ainsley stands. “I’m out. I’m preparing for the Turkey coma for tomorrow. Night, weirdos.”
One by one, they trickle off—Pete carrying a giggling Ainsley over his shoulder, Jack and Micah arguing about who has to blow up the air mattress. Beth winks at me before disappearing. Hope squeezes my knee under the blanket, whispering:Text me everything.
Then it’s just us. Me, Josh, and the dying fire.
He doesn’t move his arm.
I don’t move away.
The silence stretches, thick and electric. Outside, snow taps the windows like it’s trying to get in on the secret.
“So,” he says finally, voice rough. “That dare.”
I swallow. “Jack’s an asshole.”
