Page 15 of The Grinch and His Curvy Christmas Miracle
Like he does not want to like them but cannot stop himself.
He steps closer.
Slow.
Grounded.
Dangerous enough to steal my breath.
"What are you making?" he asks, voice low.
"Cocoa. My own mix."
He inhales.
Slow.
Deep.
The scent hits him and something in his shoulders tenses, like it reaches a place he does not let many things reach.
I lift his mug with both hands.
Offering more than cocoa.
Offering a moment.
A little warmth.
A little hope.
"You do not have to drink it," I whisper. "I just did not want to drink alone."
Something flickers across his face.
Soft.
Sharp.
Complicated.
He reaches out and takes the mug from my hands.
His fingers brush mine.
My knees almost fold.
He clears his throat like he felt the jolt too.
We move to the fire together.
He lowers himself onto the rug, legs stretched out, one knee bent. The firelight glows over the hard lines of his shoulders and jaw.
I sit beside him, not touching, but close enough that our shared heat fills the space between us.
He takes a sip.
He freezes.
