CHAPTER 1
The Goal
Nate
Most people speakof their childhood home with dreamy reverence because it’s their bar for safety.At mine, the foundation never held. For me, whatwe’vebuilt is what holds. She’s half on top of me with her stomach pressed into me, her bare arm around my side. I’m wrapped in the warmth and breathing solidness ofus, and it’s the best security blanket I never knew I needed. The strands of her raven hair cascade on my chest and face—tickling my nose, spilling into my mouth. I brush them away, shaking my head and forcing my gritty eyes open. Robyn’s got her head tucked against my bicep, her soft breaths warming my skin. I suck in a lungful of air, but it’s all orange blossoms and sweetness, so I relax back into the mattress.
I turn on my side, snaking my arm over her hips and around her stomach, then haul her closer to me—until her back, bottom, and thighs press against my front.It’s not enough.Threading my fingers through the tendrils, herbreathing still slow, I trail open-mouthed kisses down her jaw toward her chin then back to the base of her neck. She murmurs something, wriggling onto her back, and I move to hover over her, with her thighs caging my hips.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice cracking from sleep.
She runs her fingers up my spine into my hair and draws me in until our noses touch. Nuzzling against my cheek despite the stubble growing there, she drops a kiss to the tip of my nose.
Her eyes are a blue like no other. Cobalt teal with an amber ring around her pupil—Murano glass catching the last ray of sun on a cathedral’s rose window. It makes my breath stutter every fucking time.
“Are you up?”
She shakes her head. “I think I’m still dreaming. There’s this man-shaped weight on top of me. Hairy.” Her fingers glide through the thick curls on my bare chest. “A little dangerous, and definitely very sexy. My boyfriend’s not this hot.”
“He isn’t, huh?” I thrust my hips against hers so she feels how hotsheis. “Maybe you should consider an upgrade.”
“Maybe…” She drags the word out, then her voice softens. “But I do love him. Very much.”
It doesn’t matter that she’s told me a million times, my heart still beats faster, her words luring me more than any teasing ever could. I kiss her throat, closing my lips around the base of her neck and sucking. She lets out a deep, broken moan that goes straight through me.
“I don’t think he’d mind one bit,” I say, dipping my head farther and licking down the center of her chest.
She lets out a whimper. “Babe, you’re playing with fire. We agreed—” I trace slow circles with the tip of my tongue at the swell of her breast. “We wouldn’t start anything.” I lap at herskin again. “I’m about to jump on you if you don’t stop teasing.” She lets out a shaky exhale. “And I really shouldn’t with your mom in the next room.”
I groan, my boner deflating. “Way to kill the mood, Robyn.”
“I bet I could change that…” She arches into me, and the straps of her tank top slide down, allowing her skin to caress my chest. “I don’t think Rebecca would mind,” she adds, far too innocent. “She’s a worldly woman…”
There it is.The quickest, coldest shower of my life. “Nope.” I roll off her so fast my head hits the wall behind my twin bed. “Want to make sure we don’t do anything? Bring up my mom’s adventures.”
My girl laughs, and I’d take that sound over sex any day. Well… maybe noteveryday, but most days.
Robyn taps on my bicep. “Come on.” She jumps to her feet. “I’m so excited to cook breakfast with your mom. I also can’t wait for you to see your gift.”
I sit up, running a hand through my hair. The room is washed in pale winter light, the kind that makes everything look softer, almost suspended. Outside, a three-inch blanket of snow covers the lawn and roads.
My childhood room hasn’t changed—hanging on one wall is a ragged Vitruvian Man print, curling at the edges, and on the opposite is a pair of thumbtacked blueprint posters; a floating shelf’s lined with dusty balsa-wood model buildings I made at fourteen, including a tiny lopsided Fallingwater because Frank Lloyd Wright was and still istheman. The ceiling is still dotted with glow-in-the-dark constellations that faintly catch the morning light.
I would’ve been embarrassed for any other girl I’ve dated to see how clueless and earnest I was as a teen. Robyn’ll tease me about everything imaginable, but every time I talk about sharp angles or proportions, she smiles. She asks about theshapes on my drawings and models. And that does something to me, something warm and stupid and grounding. It stuns my architect heart with pride that I get to call this woman mine.
A red knit sweater folded on the old wooden toy chest at the foot of my bed stands out against all my obsessive bedroom decor. It’s a handmade design—my mom’s masterpiece. And it’smandatoryon Christmas day.
Robyn’s fixing her hair with her fingers, not bothering to change out of her black-and-red-flannel pajama bottoms. Once she’s satisfied, she pulls a green sweater out of her small duffle bag. She unfolds it and places it over her torso, then my eyes widen when she finally turns to face me.
“No—” I chuckle. “She didn’t.”
“She did,” Robyn confirms, standing by the toy box as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “She said we weren’t really together if we’re not matching for the holiday.”
Against the green wool, there’s a yeti in a Santa shirt and hat, with a speech bubble over his head that reads:Where my pants?—each letter squeezed too tightly into the space, even with the missing “are”. Likely my mother’s spatial miscalculation. That, coupled with how big the shirt is on Robyn, has a laugh bubbling out of me.
“You look ridiculous,” I say.
Standing, I grab the red sweater and pull it over my bare torso. It’ll be itchy as fuck, but I can’t layer it with an undershirt—I run hot as it is. Robyn assesses my quirky design along with me.
