“You look incredible tonight,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.
I’m wearing a deep red dress that Winnie helped me pick out, and the back is low enough that his hand rests on bare skin. Every time his fingers shift, I feel a thrill radiate up my spine. We move in slow circles as I press my face against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. Part of me still can’t believe this is real. That I get to touch him like this.
Ollie passes us on his way back from the bar and raises his glass. “About damn time,” he calls out.
“Shut up, Ollie,” Archer replies, without lifting his head from mine.
“Shutting up. Enjoy your dance.” Ollie grins and walks away.
The song ends, and another one starts. And we stay on the dance floor, moving together, holding each other.
The hotel is a small inn attached to the barn property. There are old stone walls, creaky oak floors, a fireplace in every room, and a folded quilt at the end of the bed. When Archer opens the door and I walk in, the reality of what tonight is hits me all at once.
One bed. One room. No twins down the hall. No guest room to retreat to. No reason to stop.
Archer closes the door behind us and loosens his tie. I stand by the window, looking out at the snow falling on the parking lot and at my reflection in the glass—red dress, flushed cheeks, a woman who has been waiting for this night for averylong time.
“Hey,” he says from behind me.
I turn around. He’s pulled off his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and is leaning against the door as he watches me. The look on his face makes my breath catch.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just—” I press my hand against my stomach. “I’m nervous. Which is stupid, I know.”
He crosses the room, his hand coming up to my face, his thumb tracing my jaw. He tilts my head up until I’m looking at him.
“Syd, we don’t have to do anything tonight. We can go to sleep. We can watch TV. We can raid the minibar and eat overpriced cashews. There’s no pressure.”
“I don’t want cashews, Archer.”
“No?” He lifts one dark eyebrow. “What do you want?”
I grab the front of his shirt with both hands, pulling him down to me and kiss him. He makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, relief, want—and his arms wrap around my waist as he lifts me. My legs go around him, and he carries me away from the window.
He sets me on the edge of the bed, and I look up at him, my hands still gripping his shirt. He’s standing between my knees, his chest rising and falling.
“Zipper’s in the back,” I say.
He leans down, one hand braced on the mattress beside my hip, and reaches around me. His fingers find the zipper at the nape of my neck and pull it down slowly. I feel the cold air hit each new inch of exposed skin, his warm, uneven breath againstmy temple. The dress loosens around my ribs, my waist, my hips.
I stand up, let it fall, and step out of it.
I’m in a black bra, tights, and heels, and Archer gazes down at me as if he’s forgotten every word in the English language.
“Hi,” I say, because someone has to talk, and it’s clearly going to be me.
“Hi.” His voice is about an octave lower than it was five minutes ago.
“Your turn.” I reach for his buttons, starting to work my way down, my fingers shaking slightly.
I push the shirt off his shoulders, placing my hands on his chest as I just look at him.
He’s bigger than I remember. Obviously. Seventeen-year-old Archer was tall, lean, and still growing into his frame. Thirty-one-year-old Archer is broad and solid, his abs defined in a way that makes me want to trace each one with my tongue.
I run my hands down his stomach, feeling his muscles tighten under my fingers. He exhales hard through his nose. “The NHL has been very good to you.”
