Page 35 of Holiday Interference
The cards slap lightly against the wood. My knee brushes hers again.
And every time she leans forward, that flannel dips, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her collarbone and the sharp edge of restraint I’m running low on.
I shouldn't want this to keep going. Shouldn’t want to lock the world out for another night just to watch her giggle when I make silly jokes. But I do.
God help me, I do.
We’ve burned through four rounds of poker and half a bag of marshmallows.
Noelle's winning streak is questionable, but I haven’t exactly been trying to stop her. Not when she laughs like that every time I lose—full-bodied, unfiltered, and bright enough to crack through the walls I forgot I still had up.
She’s leaned back against the couch now, sock-covered toes tucked beneath her, hoodie sleeves shoved past her elbows. One of mine—again. Swamped in it, buried in it. And hell if that doesn’t do something to me I shouldn’t name.
“You’re not even trying,” she says, grinning like she’s onto me.
I toss down another crap hand. “What gave it away?”
She stretches her arms overhead, spine arching just enough to drag my attention where it shouldn’t linger. “Could be the way you fold with nothing in the pot. Or maybe the fact that you flinch every time I smile at you.”
“I do not flinch.”
“Oh, baby. Youdefinitelyflinch.”
The wordbabyhits me low. Not because it means anything—she tosses it out like punctuation—but because it sounds too damn natural coming from her mouth.
I clear my throat. “You ever trynotbeing a menace?”
She shrugs one shoulder, then leans forward on her elbows. Her eyes sparkle. “You ever play the slap game?”
I blink. “What, like...third grade recess?”
Her grin widens. “Exactly like third grade recess. C’mon. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I’m not playing a children’s game.”
“Because you’ll lose.”
“Because I’m an adult.”
“Who’s scared to get slapped, apparently.”
That gets me. I reach for the deck of cards to move it aside, dragging it across the coffee table with the flat of my hand. “Fine. But when I win, you admit you’re the problem.”
She places her palms up, daring. “Only if you win.”
I settle my hands lightly on top of hers—warm against warm, the kind of contact that shouldn’t mean anything and somehow means too much.
Her fingers twitch beneath mine, and I feel it all the way up my arms, like a ripple of static.
“You ready?” she asks, voice suddenly quieter.
Not even a little. “Always.”
She moves fast, but I’m faster. I jerk my hands back before she makes contact, grinning as she huffs in frustration.
“That was a warm-up,” she says, resetting. “I was going easy on you.”
“Right.”
