Page 19 of The Grinch and His Curvy Christmas Miracle
And me standing there, jaw locked, thinking I had no right to touch her.
Telling myself not to even want it.
Then the cocoa.
The lights she strung up like she was stitching warmth back into a life I let go cold.
The way she looked in that ridiculous oversized sweater, glowing in the firelight, soft and sweet like she belonged in this cabin.
Maybe it was the cookies.
Maybe it was everything.
Because right now, sitting here beside her, staring into those eyes, I feel like the ground beneath me isn’t solid anymore.
She looks up at me.
Blue eyes wide.
Cheeks flushed.
Then she says it.
Soft. Clear. Like she’s cutting straight through me.
“I don’t want you to hold that line.”
My heart misses a beat.
She lifts her chin. Just enough. Brave. Barely holding herself together, but still asking.
“Please don’t hold it.”
I grit my teeth.
Fists tight in my lap.
That need rolls through me again. Thick, hot, and wrong in every way that feels right.
“Nikki…”
Her name scrapes out of me, low and raw.
I haven’t said anyone’s name like that in years.
Not since I stopped letting people matter.
She watches me like she’s standing in the middle of a storm and choosing not to run.
She should.
She doesn’t.
And I know—if I touch her again, it’s done.
There’s no rewinding this.
No undoing the taste of her.
