I stand at the window, my hands clasped behind my back, staring out at the winter wonderland.
There’s a frosted pattern on the window, a winter rose drawn on the glass by the cold winter night. I frown at the frost flower and keep my hands clasped together, resisting the urge to follow Natalie down the hall, lay her on the bed, and kiss her again.
I’d imagined that she’d taste like gingerbread, like candy canes—sugary sweet. She didn’t. She tasted like addiction.
The second my mouth hit hers I needed more, and more, and I knew I would spend the rest of my life craving her, needing the feel of her.
The second I pulled away I felt the withdrawal. The only cure to the empty feeling is to kiss her again. Which isn’t going to happen.
We’re going back to the city. I’m going to forget about her.
I’m going to bury myself in mountains of work and make it through December. And contrary to the sudden burning desire to kiss her, I’m going to refrain. I’m going to forget about the Christmas nutter who dragged me to a cabin in the woods for a day and get on with my life.
Down the hall, Natalie limps back to the living room, her footsteps creaking on the wood floor. I don’t turn to look. I don’t want to see her expression.
There’s a part of me that almost wishes she’d argued with me. The fact that she acquiesced so easily was a bit of a letdown. I’ve only known her for twenty-four hours, but already I expect her to fight for what she wants, give as good as she gets, come at me with passion and fire.
When she put her head down, stared at the floor, and humbly agreed that I was right? Let’s just say it left me deflated.
Not that I want to celebrate Christmas or engage in her Christmas craze. But seeing her agreeing so readily? That wasn’t her.
I narrow my eyes on her car, buried under snow and branches. There’s an endless stretch of snowy wilderness.
Would Natalie give up so easily?
Would she?
Or is she planning something?
She’s in the living room now, the soft sounds of her footsteps on the rug, her warm presence behind me. She steps close, lets out a shuddering breath.
I hold myself still, my hands clasped behind my back, determined not to turn around and kiss her.
“You have my phone?” I ask, my voice cold, strained.
Then, before I can turn around, or look at her, or do anything at all, cold metal locks around my wrist, biting my skin. The sound of metal clicking, locking is her response.
She’s handcuffed me.