I scoop up a fistful of snow from the railing, pack it tight, and hurl it at Oliver.
It hits him in the back of his head.
He turns around, reaching into the back of his coat. “What the heck?” he asks. “That went down my sweatshirt.”
I wrinkle my nose. “If it helps, I was aiming for your butt.”
“That doesn’t help,” he says, still pulling on the back of his coat. He looks at the line, then back at me.
His mouth curves into a slow smirk.
And he runs toward me.
I shriek and try to bolt down the sidewalk, but I’m clumsily hopping on crutches, the square is full of people, and Oliver’s an ex-athlete.
For the second time today, I feel his arms snake around me, but this time, he lifts me so my crutches drop and pulls me so close, his lips skim my earlobe. “You’re going down, Elf.”
My feet kick as I laugh breathlessly. “Let me go!”
“Say mercy,” he orders.
“Never!” I wriggle, but it’s useless.
He has me.
And he can keep me, if he wants.
At least until I feel him stuff a shock of snow down the back of my sweater.
I yelp, arching away from the icy shock. He tries to tighten his grip, but I twist and escape, just to have him catch one of my hands before I can scoop up more snow.
People passing by grin at us. I hear Jake call out something that’s probably obscene.
But the only thing real to me is this—Oliver grabbing my hand, pulling me toward him until he pins my arms at my sides. Both of us laughing and panting. Our eyes catch, and just like that, the noise of the square dims, the whole world narrowing to him and the heat burning under my skin despite the cold seeping through my clothes.
As chilly as I am, his gaze on me feels like a hug.
What I wouldn’t give for a real one.
These little touches already have my nerves sparking and my chest aching like something hollow inside me is finally being filled. If a snowball fight can do this, how would it feel if he wrapped his arms around my back and folded me against him, holding tight until I felt stitched together again?
But that’s dangerous territory.
Kissing Oliver was amazing. Hugging him, though? That might undo me completely.
“You two lovebirds ready for dinner, or what?” Jake asks, walking past us and throwing his empty cup into a nearby trash can.
“Or what,” I whisper so only Oliver can hear.
His lips tick up in a small smile.
And I’m done.
Dinner ends up atThe Dog Pound, a bar & grill known for its burgers and brats, with jerseys and Christmas lightsplastering every inch of wall space and at least ten TVs tuned to various football and hockey games. Jake angled for a swanky steakhouse, but Oliver vetoed.
“I’m more burger and fries than steak and potatoes,” he said when we piled into the car.
“No skin off my back, Coach,” Jake said.
