Miles’s revelation changed everything. It all felt different when I thought we both hated each other. I thought of the way he held my hand when we jumped into the pond and then half-carried me out, the way he paid no mind to Glenn, the way his hand felt when it pressed against the small of my back, the way our toe-curling, stupid, un-mistletoe kiss played in my thoughts, and the softness in his eyes as he told his parents—excuse me—lied to his parents about the things he liked about me. Yes…we definitely…hated each other.
Shoot.
If I did happen to admit that he was attractive and could be charming when he wanted to, it only made it that much worse. Besides the fact that we worked together, he was a walking Bear Grylls. Way too adventurous for me. He’d get bored in a matter of days when I refused to do all the things he loved. Because this girl would never go skydiving. Never. I had zero desire to rock climb. Here, where Miles had fewer distractions, I was just something new to occupy his attention. He was bored. I needed to remember that.
It was easy enough to remember while we decorated our tree—my tree. Not our tree. I found myself getting a tiny bit excited by the smell of fresh pine in the cabin. The glow of the white twinkle lights he draped across the tree sparked a fury of childhood memories that had me biting my lip to keep my eyes from watering. He’d found an old box of Christmas decorations that he and his siblings had made in elementary school. Soon, I was laughing at a picture of an earnest, beaming, bucktooth Miles from second grade. He had grown into his teeth quite nicely. There was a homemade brown cinnamon ornament with his tiny handprint inside. It was all so sweet. Really, it was. The soft sounds of Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra wove a spell over and around us. That was all it was. A spell. But my resolve to not fall for Miles Taylor was still firm. Look at me, a pillar of strength.
Of course, that was before my own personal Bear Grylls tucked me gently underneath a blanket on the couch, lifting my feet to rest against the coffee table. Then, he put in an old DVD copy of Home Alone that he’d also found downstairs, bringing me a cup of cream with a dash of coffee, just how I liked it, and a bowl of freshly microwaved popcorn before he plopped next to me on the couch. It seemed we had both decided to forego dinner at the lodge this evening in lieu of crossing off our Christmas movie bingo square. He was close enough to share the blanket. My blanket. Close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his arm, which was definitely pressed against mine. Miles with socks on, black jogging pants, a gray shirt, and an adorable grin, looking much too comfortable lounging in my space, was a definite breach against my defenses. But I could keep it together. One of us had to. He leaned forward and took a sip of my coffee, making a face before setting it back down on the table.
“For a girl who can’t stand milk, your coffee preferences are a head-scratcher.”
“Those three tablespoons of coffee completely change the chemistry of the cream,” I insisted, re-focusing my attention on the movie, which made it easy when we both quoted the lines as they were being said.
“I used to watch this movie all the time as a kid. Even during the off-season,” Miles said, looking much too cozy with his head resting on the back of the couch, his arms folded across his chest and his feet crossed at the ankles.
I gasped. “That’s sacrilegious!”
“Such a rule follower.” His statement held no heat, but he bumped my leg with his and set fire racing to my heart.
After a moment, I added, “I used to watch it every Christmas Eve with my dad. It was his favorite.”
We were both quiet for a long moment. “He sounds like a good guy,” Miles said.
I smiled. “He was. But do you just think so because he liked the same kid show you do?”
His feet nudged mine softly. “If I had my guess, it was his favorite because it was yours.”
Warmth spread across my entire body as his words seeped into my heart. In the twenty-five years I’d been alive, never once had that thought crossed my mind. As a kid, I had never questioned my dad’s taste in the movie. Home Alone was pure cinematic gold–who wouldn’t love it? But now I could perfectly see my sweet dad settling in beside me on the couch once a year to watch two bumbling thieves try to rob a child of his Christmas…because I had wanted to. It was our thing. Of course it was for me.
Moisture filled my eyes as I kept my gaze forward. I knew the Christmas tree was a bad idea. Too many feelings and emotions wrapped up in the tradition. I was aware of Miles watching me for a long moment before he turned his attention back to the TV. Good. That was better. I needed to get my thoughts back on track. In this cozy setting, it was difficult to remember that he was the annoying teacher across the hallway.
I certainly didn’t give rise to the feel of his arm pressed against mine. Nor did I care or get worked up every time I felt him move or stretch or re-adjust his position, which always seemed to bring him closer to me. Honestly, it was ridiculous that he was so close when there were three other seats on the couch. There were other blankets. Nobody could see us. I blamed the Christmas tree for my not scooting away from him. It seemed to emit some sort of warm Christmas glow about the cabin that left me incapable of moving an inch.
Our hands brushed against each other under the blanket. I stilled. The hands would definitely be a problem if he—
A warm finger reached out and unclasped my pinkie sitting clenched together in a fist on my lap. I drew in a breath. The kid in the movie—his name suddenly left me—had just dropped his groceries on the sidewalk when Miles went for finger number two. Warm heat from his fingers grazed mine, and I found myself not objecting when he seemed to get tired of his own game and grabbed my entire hand, locking his fingers inside and moving it to rest on his leg. He didn’t look at me, but I could sense his smile. Tingles erupted down my spine as he played torturously with my fingers.
I cleared my throat and remembered that I was a pillar. I didn’t remove my hand, but I did say in a very firm voice, “My hand is cold. I’m just letting you warm it up. That’s all.”
A throaty chuckle. “Good to know, Spanks.”
An embarrassed laugh sputtered out of me at the new nickname. I moved to elbow him in the ribs. Before I knew how it happened he had released my hand, draped his arm around my shoulder and drawn me into his body. My head curled into his chest, and my feet （of their own accord） tangled with his on the coffee table. As naturally as if they’d been designed to do it, our fingers clasped together across his stomach.
I remember Kevin not eating the delicious-looking mac and cheese. I remember him blowing out the candles at the table. But the rest was a blur of the senses. The glow of the Christmas lights flickering across the room, the smell of pine and cinnamon, the feel of my feet resting against Miles, and the way his thumb moved softly against mine. And above all, I remember feeling the strong, sturdy beat of his heart pounding through his chest and the way he tucked me tightly against him.
It was 2 am when I awoke to a fuzzy blue screen and hurriedly uncurled myself from his body. Aghast that I had let myself get that comfortable, I shook his arm to wake him and shoo him out the door. This was getting out of hand. Dang you, Christmas tree. And Frank Sinatra. For the most part, Miles obliged, but he took me by surprise when he turned abruptly at the door as I was following him out, causing my body to run smack into his chest. I made the mistake of looking up, and our eyes held for a long moment.