Page 50 of Snow Balled

“Well, certainly not today. Not so far, anyway. But hey, if Hollywood or the Kissing Lobby has indoctrinated me, then I want to deprogram myself.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood a little.” He stood, and for a moment, he stared into the remains of last night’s fire. Then he let out a huff of air and came over to the sofa, sitting a foot or two away from me. “The truth is, Sierra, this conversation is depressing as hell.”

Hurt filled me as I hugged my knees and looked away from him. But then he put his hand on my arm.

“I hate that you’ve had such bad experiences, and I hate that it’s made you feel this way.”

“I’m fine. I like my life the way it is.”

“But maybe it could be better.”

I turned toward him but scooted my back against the arm rest. “Who are you to judge that?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, that’s not my place. But I think you’re wrong about kissing, and I’m allowed to think that because I’ve had many amazing kisses. Not because they were epic or Hollywood style, but because I enjoyed the hell out of them. You rightly said I shouldn’t judge your life—are you willing to accept I might be speaking the truth?”

“Your truth,” I said.

“Exactly. It was my experience and my interpretation of how it felt. That’s how it works. If you’ve never felt anything from a kiss—and that’s understandable given how many of them have been staged—that’s your truth. But that doesn’t mean that’s how you’ll feel forever.”

“So… you want to kiss me so that you can prove me wrong?”

“I want to kiss you because I want to kiss you. You’re a beautiful woman, Sierra. You can’t deny that. But what’s more, I like you.”

Conflicting emotions flooded my mind. His words touched me more than I wanted to admit. I was used to people discussing my looks. I was less used to people who seemed to like me for more than that. Tristan wasn’t shallow—far from it. But he wasn’t doing this just because he liked me. “You feel sorry for me.”

“I do,” he said honestly. “You’ve been robbed of the opportunity to experience something amazing. But I didn’t know that before and I wanted to kiss you—and I still do now.”

I crossed my ankles and squeezed my legs together, trying to think. I’d kissed actors I didn’t care about. It was part of my job. If I could do that, then kissing a friend shouldn’t be a big deal… but wouldn’t Tristan be disappointed when I failed to experience the magic he wanted me to feel? “It just doesn’t do anything for me.” Maybe he was right—maybe in some circumstances, it thrilled other people. But I doubted I’d ever be in that camp.

“If you still say that afterwards, I’ll never ask again.”

It was ludicrous. Our earlier excitement had faded. The moment had long passed, and I’d bummed him out with my views on the topic. Yet, he leaned forward, his gaze alternating between my eyes… and my lips. “Okay.”

The light in his eyes didn’t make sense. All I’d said was one word—that shouldn’t be enough to affect him. It was that damn indoctrination. It was like Zeus whenever he heard a bag crinkle, he thought he’d get a treat. With people, whenever they thought they were about to kiss, they anticipated hormones and endorphins and sugar and spice and everything nice.

Tristan reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. That was how half the movie kisses I’d filmed had started—more proof that people modeled the behavior they saw on the screen. Then he tugged on the end of my ponytail. “Can you undo that?”

Okay, so his voice was soft and husky. Maybe it made my pulse speed up a little—maybe. But it was all just conditioning.

My eyes never left his as I reached back and pulled out the elastic holder. Then I fluffed out my hair, letting it settle around my shoulders. Just because I didn’t believe in what we were doing didn’t mean I shouldn’t try to look nice for his sake. And I had to admit, when he stroked my hair, his fingertips brushing my scalp, it felt nice. I never denied that touching felt good—Drew’s certainly had. But it still felt like Tristan followed a script—one that everyone used and no one ever questioned.

Then he did that thing the actors did, too, where his eyes kept flicking to my lips. Okay, it kind of built anticipation, a little, but again, it was right out of the playbook.

Tristan raised himself up on his knees, one arm on the back of the couch and the other by my feet. It felt familiar when he crawled toward me, and I remembered Aiden Hunt doing the same thing in the sex scene we’d filmed last year.

But Tristan wasn’t being filmed. He didn’t have a mark to hit. Instead, he hovered over me, as if taking his time. As if savoring the moment.

But was he really? Or did he just feel like he was supposed to be?

His face was so close that I saw specks of gold in his blue eyes. I’d never noticed them before. I wondered what he saw in my green ones. There were some different hues if you looked hard enough—which he seemed to do.

In the spirit of giving his experiment a chance, I twisted my legs to the side, sliding them between the back of the couch and his. He couldn't kiss me very well if my knees were pulled protectively up to my chest. Or at least, he probably didn’t want to do it that way.

But now, I lay under him and he hovered over me—almost as if he was going to do a whole lot more than kiss me. But I didn’t let panic take over. I fought to keep my breathing slow and steady, like I did during yoga. I paid attention to my body and noted my pulse was faster and I wanted his hand in my hair again.

As if reading my mind, he obliged. Supporting himself with one hand, he grasped a handful of my hair and squeezed softly. I braced myself, waiting for him to yank my head into the position more suitable for him to take my mouth, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he brought his forehead to mine. His skin was warm and dry. I felt his soft breath on my face, and I noted a minty scent, perhaps from the mouthwash in the bathroom. He was careful to hold himself off of me, so while I was under him, I didn’t feel trapped.

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