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We’re already at the top of the hill, so Brad tosses the sled down and fits himself into the rear spot. He holds out his hand. “Let’s go, Winny.”

I’m supposed to sit in between his thighs. It’s thirty degrees out, yet I feel myself heating up from the inside. The thought of being pressed up against him so intimately is scary, yet intriguing.

There was a time when I couldn’t wait to be pressed up against him, clothing optional. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Those young twenties hormones were so strong we didn’t bother to resist the temptation. We didn’t want to resist.

Good thing we’re older and wiser now. I have my hormones on lockdown. I can sit between his muscular thighs and not feel a dang thing. No problem.

At least, that’s the lie I tell myself as I sink down on the seat. He wraps his arms around me, tighter than necessary. “Don’t you need those hands to steer?” I ask innocently.

“Nope, sweetheart. That’s all you. Better gather that rope.”

“No!”

He takes his leg out and pushes us off before I know what’s happening. I frantically try to grab the rope as we careen down a hill that is far steeper than I thought. All the while, Brad is laughing in my ear. He’s having the time of his life, and I’m thinking we’re going to die.

“Pull to the right,” he yells, still laughing.

“I’m trying!”

I see the snowy embankment up ahead. I use all my weight to try to steer us clear and get absolutely no help from Brad, who still has his arms tightly wound around me.

There’s no way around it. We’re going to hit it.

At the last moment, Brad grabs the rope and then pulls to the right and leans into a turn. Except, we didn’t quite make it. The sled slams into the side of the snowy mound and then flips onto the side, taking us with it. We end up in a snowy heap of entangled legs and arms.

Brad is shaking with barely controlled mirth as he tries to swipe some of the snow off his jacket. I scoot away from him, murder on my mind. I quickly grab up some snow and pack it into a tight ball. My arm swings back to gather momentum. “Hey, Brad?”

He looks up just in time to get a snowball to the face.

“Oh, that’s how we’re gonna play it? You better run,” he threatens just as he gets another snowball to the face.

“Ha! You’re too slow,” I taunt. I push myself up to a crawling position and try to gather more snow.

“You know this is war, right?” he threatens.

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you have snow all over your face,” I tell him.

“Oh, yeah?” He quickly starts gathering snow. By the time I’ve made two balls, he has four. I throw mine quickly and then take off, running back towards the hill.

I risk a look behind me, and he’s gathered his four snowballs into his arm and is chasing after me, throwing as he runs.

He has one left, and I’m giggling so hard that I can’t make it up the slippery hill fast enough. He jumps beside me and smashes the remaining snowball into the collar of my jacket. I shriek and roll over. As I roll over, he rolls over with me. And we’re laughing and panting from the exertion of running. He’s on top of me, and his face is inches from mine.

And we’re still laughing. But, then, suddenly, we’re not.

His breath hitches in his throat, and his eyes drop to my lips. I know he’s thinking of kissing me. At that moment, that’s all I can think of, too. The feeling of having the cold snow at my back and the hard, warm body covering my front has instant flames of fiery desire coursing through me.

Kiss me, I implore silently. Just once. Kiss me.

But he doesn’t do it. Instead, his lips turn up into a cocky grin. “Gotcha. Next time, run faster.”

He rolls away from me and jumps to his feet. When he holds out his hand to pull me up, I take it, and we ascend the hill together. With each step, I wonder if I imagined it all. Maybe I wanted the kiss so badly that I mistakenly thought he felt the same.

Or maybe, just maybe, he’s a damn good actor.

We get to the top of the hill, and someone has made us a little fire. Beside the fire is a little tray loaded with marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, and two skewers.

“We’re making s’mores? You did this?”