Page 58 of A Newport Christmess

My head was spinning, but I was determined to keep my wits about me. “My short wingspan is more conducive to a tripod and remote.” I groaned at the new evidence and held it up as proof of my point.

He stood so close I felt his laugh vibrate against my back. “And to think, I was convinced there couldn’t be a bad picture of you.”

I nudged my elbow into him. “Not all of us can look like a Greek god at the snap of a finger.”

“Here. Let me have the phone.” He wrapped one arm in front of me from one shoulder to the other and leaned in until our faces were even. My heart pounded beneath his arm, and I hoped he couldn’t feel it. Not wanting to simply stand there, I rested my hands on his forearm, knuckles out, and tilted my head toward him. He lifted the phone high in the air with his monstrous reach. He didn’t press the capture button on the screen but squeezed both sides of the phone, and the phone clicked. And clicked again.

I looked over at him, planning to inquire about his little phone trick, but the question slipped from my mind when our eyes met. His face was inches from mine. His lips a breath away. My gaze lingered on them for a second too long. He nestled into me, his skin warm against mine. Shocks of electricity pulsed through my body when his beard tickled my neck.

I turned my face toward the screen, and another round of clicks sounded. It was a well-timed reminder—this was all pretend. Exactly like everything else with Landon. And yet, even as I repeated the truth in my head, my body was in a state of denial. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to suspend reality for a moment longer, before opening them again. I needed to get a grip. “Do you think we got a good one?” I dropped his arm and stepped out of his grasp, suddenly grateful for the freezing temps that had prevented me from melting into a puddle.

He handed me the camera. “You be the judge.”

My chest buzzed as I scrolled through the images. This couldn’t be us. The people in these images looked completely smitten with each other. Their feelings looked real, not pretend.

“Anything worth keeping? Or should we have a round two?”

The thought of being that close to Landon again made breathing difficult. I thrust his phone toward him. “Nope, I think we got it. Should we start back?” Before he could answer, I started up the hill, soon huffing and puffing from my chosen pace. It was time to get back to work. I was in desperate need of a distraction.

* * *

The sun had set, and with how hard I was focusing in the low light, it was probably time to call it quits. But I’d not gotten enough done on the gingerbread house. I still had two to three hours of work before I could finish, and the thought of putting it off until tomorrow made my stomach churn. How was I ever going to finish the other three that were all more time-intensive than this one?

My gaze landed on Landon for the millionth time today. He sat at the far end of the couch, doing something on his phone. How he had any battery left, I didn’t know. I just hoped we didn’t have to spend a second night without power. Especially considering we only had one working phone—aka flashlight—between the two of us, and who knew how much longer Landon’s would last at the rate he was using it?

Landon lifted his gaze, and I forgot to look away like I wasn’t watching him. “When you have a minute, I want to show you something.”

I looked back at the gingerbread house and sighed. I was not usually one to call it quits, but what was I supposed to do when I was straining to see as it was? I didn’t want to risk messing up. Dropping the piping bag onto the plate, I started toward Landon, feeling suddenly overcome with exhaustion. The late nights, my aching eyes and hands, and the ambiance of the roaring fire made me want to curl up in a blanket and pass out. When I dropped on the cushion next to him, he glanced down at our touching legs and then back at me.

“Slight rule change,” I said, too tired to move. “We can touch when we’re alone as long as it’s not intimate.”

He gave a slow nod. “Is there a precise definition of intimate you’d like to give, or can we treat that with some subjectivity?”

“Are you lawyer-talking me?”

“I want to make sure I don’t cross any lines.”

“Fine.” I pointed to our thighs. “This is okay.”

He nudged me with his elbow. “How about that?”

“Also okay.”

The hand that rested on his thigh brushed the side of my hand, sending a trill of pleasure through me that chased my exhaustion away. “That?” he asked.

I glanced over at him, confused about his intentions. “Less okay.”

“And why’s that?” Those darn brown eyes of his glinted with amusement in the firelight. What was he up to? “I’m just curious.”

“Our hands touching feels more intimate.”

He patted my hand stiffly and sent me a questioning look. “So, not fine?”

I laughed. “No, that’s acceptable.”

“Then what’s the difference between this”—he transitioned from patting my hand to caressing the tips of his fingers over my skin—“and this?”

Fire filled my veins beneath his movements. I swallowed. The difference was clearly the feelings that one induced in me, but that was the last thing I wanted to admit right now. “I’m pretty sure you’re smart enough to figure it out.”