OLIVER

For a fraction of a second when I wake, I'm not sure where I am. It's not my apartment in Boston. Not my bedroom in my childhood home in St. Augustine. I turn my head and blink at a Christmas tree. It's red-and-gold garland sparkles even in the gray morning light that's filtering through a bank of windows. My eyes go to the stone fireplace. There's no fire, which means the gas is probably on some sort of timer.

The cabin. Vermont.

As I sit up, I remember everything. Charlotte. A rush of happiness fills my chest.

There she is, sleeping on the other part of the sofa. She's wrapped in her red blanket like a burrito, her angelic face peeking out. I'd like to sit here for a while and watch her sleep, but that would be creepy. So I tiptoe out.

A shower and coffee make me feel human. But, damn. Last night. I'd had my chance and screwed things up with her again.

It had been my chance to finally tell her how I feel, and I failed. And now our parents are probably coming in today, which will make it a thousand times more difficult to talk with her. Especially if something's wrong with her mom.

Maybe this isn't the time to tell her at all. I could wait. Make plans to come see her in Vermont in a month or two. Or invite her to my place. Tell her I'd like to take her to a concert. I'm sure I can find something she'd like.

She hinted that she'd come to Boston. Hell, I've waited five years for her. What's another couple of months?

I'm about to take a sip of my coffee when my phone buzzes. I pick up.

"Hey, Dad."

"Oliver. How's the cabin? The conditions on the mountain?"

"The mountain's sick. Conditions are perfect. I snowboarded all day yesterday. Sore as hell." I groan. "And the cabin's sweet, too. Charlotte came in last night."

Dad makes a humming noise. "I see."

"We had pizza, drank a couple of beers. watched a movie." I try to sound casual. "We're thinking about snowshoeing today. When are you and mom getting in?"

"Doesn't look like today, son. Everything's shut down because of this storm. All up and down the East Coast. Your mother and I are with Emma and Caleb, having breakfast by the pool. I'll let you know as soon as we can take off. I wanted you to know that we might not get there until tomorrow. Maybe even the day after. Things are a mess. Not the way your mother and I wanted to spend Christmas."

I grin into the phone. Another day alone with Charlotte. Or two.

"That's okay, Dad. I understand." My heart rate's kicked up.

"Son, you got everything under control there? You and Charlotte?"

He knows how I felt about Charlotte when we were teenagers. He'd interrupted us kissing, and the next day, as he moved me into my dorm, gave me a stern lecture about not breaking her heart. Our families were friends, he'd said. Business partners.

Don't poison the well with your teenage lust.

Don't start something you won't be able to finish.

There are lots of women in college who are your age. A more appropriate age.

I listened to him and stayed away, figuring that I was in New York at university, and she was still in high school. She was too young, I told myself in those months after the kiss.

"All under control."

"Good to hear. Your mother says hello. Talk soon, son."

We hang up. Maybe things have changed. Charlotte and I are older. She probably has a boyfriend. Or dozens of guys wanting to be with her.

I need to find out once and for all. My feelings for her haven't changed. If anything, they've come roaring back, more powerful than ever.

It's time to finish what I'd started all those years ago.

CHARLOTTE

"Thanks for making this. There's nothing like waking up to the smell of coffee. I'm impressed."

I watch Oliver pouring the life-saving liquid into a mug. He's made more than enough for both of us. I like how considerate he is. Every time I've ever spent the night with a guy, he's barely mustered a goodbye kiss, never mind coffee.

"Aw, I'm sure you have guys lining up to make you coffee in the morning."

Oliver grins and hands me the mug. I wrap both hands around it and smirk. "Yeah, sure."

"You have a boyfriend?"

"Nope."

He nods and takes a sip of his coffee. For a moment, he looks so adult. He must have shaved early this morning, because his face is stubble-free. It somehow makes him look older. Like he's ready to head to the office and do a million-dollar deal. It's something in the way his smooth jaw is set, the way he seems so in control.

"I'm going to turn up the heat. It's kinda cold in here, right?"

I murmur a yes, and he walks out. The cabin is chilly this morning, and a brief fantasy flits through my mind of getting in bed under a thick comforter and watching movies.

With Oliver.

Naked.

I've never really lounged liked that with a guy. It's a fantasy, being all cozy and nude, while snow falls. Reading books. Drinking coffee spiked with Baileys.

The sound of the heat clunking to life fills the house. Oliver's back in the kitchen, seemingly taking up a lot of space with his broad shoulders. This morning, he's wearing a black Henley. Jesus. His chest looks like a wall of stone. What would it feel like to run my hands over those muscles? To rub my face on his, purring, as if I were a cat against a sofa leg?

"What do you want to do today?"

I look at him, alarmed. Can he read my mind? His dark eyes study my face.

"Oh. Uh. You know. We could ski. Or snowboard. Go to the lodge and drink cocoa. You feel like doing that?"

"I'm a little sore today after yesterday. Cocoa sounds good. I'd like something a little more low impact."

Like a massage in bed?

I hold my mug and look at the ceiling. "I'm thinking."

About us in bed.

"We could snowshoe."

A soft sigh escapes my lips. "Yeah, you mentioned it last night."

Why is he so intent on snowshoeing? I guess we have to leave the house sometime, and we'll work up a sweat while trudging through the snow. I imagine a sheen of perspiration over his bronze skin. "I could be into that. I'm game for trying anything once."

"Cool. Cool."

He stretches his glorious arms overhead. The hem of his shirt rides up. I peek over the rim of my mug because I'm incorrigible. His stomach is all muscle, his sweatpants are low-slung, and there's a trail of dark, downy hair from his bellybutton to...

"Well, I'm going to get ready. Thirty minutes?"

I stare into my coffee, blowing on it as if it's the temperature of molten lava. "Absolutely."

He starts to walk out, and I sneak a glance at his butt.

When he turns around, I mutter something about a piece of lint in my coffee, and stick my index finger in the hot liquid.

"Oh," he says, hitting me with a killer, I-know-what-you-were-staring-at grin. "I heard from my dad. Doesn't look like our parents will be here today."

Mom. My stomach drops. Then I think about her hopeful, mischievous voice when she told me that Oliver's always adored me.

"Oh well," I say, locking eyes with him as I shake my dripping wet finger to dry. "I'm sure we'll figure out a way to entertain ourselves."

To say that snowshoeing is difficult is the lie of the year.

It's possible that my thigh muscles might turn to barely set Jell-O before this day is over. I shuffle to a stop and stab my poles into the snow, which is getting deeper by the hour, it seems. At least I can stand up on these things. That's my one victory. I'd had my doubts.

We're at a fork in the trail. Fat, fluffy snowflakes are coming down softly, and everything around us is white. Trees. Trail. My snowsuit.

I look down at my snow-crusted boots that are strapped into the aluminum snowshoes. They're surprisingly light for things that look like oblong tennis rackets. Oliver steps to my side.

"We're not going to get lost, are we?" I ask, worriedly.

"No, see the little red marks on the trees?" He gestures in a fluid motion with one of his poles.

"Okay, good. Are you sure you don't want me to go behind you? You're probably much faster. And I'm worried you're going to get close, and I'll stab you in the face with my poles."

"No. I don't want to lose you. So you go in front. I'll stay away from your poles."

"Okay. I just don't want to hold you back. I know I'm slow."

"This isn't a race. You're doing great."

I grin, warming at his compliment. Sports have always been a sore subject for me. I'd rather read a book. "Thanks. You don't have to say that."

"No. You really are. You thought you'd fall. You haven't. You're moving at a nice clip."

It's true. I seemed to have more control than I imagined on these things. Even though I feel like Bigfoot. A lady Bigfoot in a white snow jumpsuit with a pink pom-pom hat.

"Okay. Oh, I see the sign for the ski lodge. I'll go that way."

I waddle off. Oliver's wearing perfectly-fitting black snow pants and a red plaid coat, like a Vermonter. I wonder if he owns it or bought it for this trip or found it at the cabin. The coat accentuates the broadness of his shoulders. Makes him look like a lumberjack. A sexy Cuban lumberjack. Are there Cuban lumberjacks? As I tromp down the trail, I imagine us living together in Vermont, him chopping wood. Getting sweaty. Taking off that coat.

Growing a thick, dark, beard. Yum.

This is ridiculous, the way I'm lusting after him. How I'm being coy. I'm not normally this way around guys. When I see a guy I want at a party, I go up to him. If I'm interested in someone online, I message them. If I want to sleep with someone, I do. No strings. No complications. It's sport.

But it doesn't feel like a game with Oliver. Why am I shyest with the man I've known the longest? It makes no sense. Maybe because he kissed me and forgot me. Something that seemed—hell, still seems—so out of character. And a little humiliating.

The longer we walk, the more I turn that kiss over in my mind. We were on a beach boardwalk that night of his party, and I was in a bikini. He was in swim trunks and shirtless. Thin and tan and boyish. There was a full moon and a humid, hot breeze. We were walking back to his house after a bonfire on the beach. I'd been uncharacteristically quiet around him that night, acutely aware that he hadn't taken his eyes off me all night.

The backs of our hands had brushed against one another as we walked. And then just like that, he stopped, turned to me, and took my face in his hands. He kissed me, hard and hot. Stole the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my head.

It was the most perfect kiss I've ever had.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. My snowshoes mash the snow with every labored step.

I'm going to ask him why he never talked to me after that. I've got to.

We've come to a thick grove of trees, shrouded in snow. There's a wide patch of fresh snow to one side, and because I see the top of a bench, I figure I won't fall into a ravine. So I pull over. With exaggerated leg movements, I twist my body around so I'm facing Oliver. He stops, about ten feet behind me.

"Hey. You okay?" He peers at me in concern.

I'm panting. He's not. "Yeah. Well, no."

He moves closer, but out of range of my poles. "We're not far from the lodge. But we can rest for a while. Want a granola bar? I brought one for you."

"Why didn't you ever call or write or text after you kissed me?"

He gently sticks his poles into the snow. Then he licks his lips. I spy his eyes going to the top of my head.

"What are you looking at?"

"Your hat."

"Did you hear my question?"

"Yeah. I did."

"So why are you looking at my hat?"

"It's...cute. You're cute in it. You look like a cat or something."

I frown. "Cats wear pink pom-poms?"

He shrugs and chews on his full bottom lip. Obviously, I'm making him nervous.

"Back to the kiss. It's been on my mind since I got here. You don't have to answer. Maybe you don't remember. But I do."

I pick up my leg, wanting just to get to the lodge so I can slip into the bathroom and away from him. So I can escape from the shame and embarrassment. Our kiss meant nothing to him. All these years I'd held it as a special moment in my heart. The back of my throat thickens.

"Wait," he says sharply.

I tamp my foot down and glance at him.

"I'm sorry. I'm not good at this."

"Not good at what?" I shuffle a couple of feet toward him so the tops of our snowshoes are touching.

"Talking about this stuff. Women. Relationships."

"You don't have a girlfriend?"

He laughs. "No."

As if on cue, a snowflake lands in my right eye. I rub it with my mitten. Crap, it burns. I blink several times. It's searing from the sunscreen I'd slathered on. Even though it's snowing, I always wear sunscreen when I'm outdoors. A Florida habit.

I look at him through my left eye while squinting the other. Oliver clears his throat. My question has obviously made him nervous. Or I look like a pirate.

I force my eye open, and now I probably look like I'm crying. I feel like crying.

"Sharkie, I kissed you at my going away party because I wanted to. Badly. Had wanted to for a long time. And I felt horrible about it."

"What? Why?" My stomach twists at his words. Horrible? I jerk up my hand and with it, my pole. A blob of snow flies from the tip of my pole and hits Oliver in the leg. This is going swimmingly. "Sorry."

"Because you were fifteen and I was seventeen. You were a kid. And because my dad caught us."

"Yeah, that was awkward when he came hauling ass down that boardwalk. But you shouldn't have felt bad."

"I did, though. I felt weird about it. You were in high school. I was going to college. I figured it would be kinda perverted if I liked a high school girl. And our dads did business together, and he'd told me not to break your heart. I meant to talk with you about it, but I don't do social media."

What? Not break my heart? "I know. I've looked for you."

His eyes widen, as if he's surprised by that fact. "I wanted to talk to you when I came home on break that year, but you were away that Christmas, then you were at camp the next summer. I went to London to study for a year, and after all that time, I figured I should just let it go."

He lifts his pole and jabs it into the snow repeatedly, like he's stabbing something. His eyes do this squinty thing. "But I haven't been able to let it go."

"Oh. Really?" That's the snappiest comeback I can think of. I'm surprised he sounds so regretful. A little happy about it, actually.

"I liked you. So much, Sharkie."

I straighten my spine as a zing of awareness goes through my spine. My eye has stopped leaking. "You did?"

"Obviously. I kissed you. I didn't go around kissing a lot of girls back then. I was kind of a dork."

"I didn't think you were a dork."

He smiles, and suddenly the forest seems lit with his happiness. "You were the coolest girl I knew. One of the reasons I liked you so much back then."

"Liked? Past tense?"

He shoots me a smoldering look, and even though the snow's falling hard, my face flashes hot.

"Present tense. Very present. Like right this minute. I've always adored you, still adore you. You're so my type, Sharkie. I've tried and tried to find someone like you, but I haven't. I've compared everyone I meet to you. I—"

It's the sign I'm looking for. I let my poles fall into the snow. With a little hop, I'm next to him, my stance wide, my snowshoes straddling his.

I take his face in my pink mittens and put my lips against his. The hitch of his breath, and the need in his eyes, give me all the answers I need.

His lips are soft. Sensual. Scorching. Something inside me lifts, as if I'm flying. The snowflakes coming down land on our faces, and they melt on contact from our shared heat. I break away, let my hands slip to his chest, and grin.

"Oh," he says in a soft voice. "Oh, wow."

We pause, staring at each other through the falling snow. There's a sparkling feeling of sweetness and desire in the air. A heady combination.

"I interrupted you. Sorry." My voice is almost drowned out by the wind. It's kicked up, as if another onslaught of sideways-whizzing snow is on the way.

"Don't apologize for anything. I wanted to say that you're my type. You've always been my type. You're smart and fierce and gorgeous. You also don't give a fuck what people think. I love that about you."

Oh God. I imagine my heart becoming so hot that it bursts and melts the snow all around us. No one has ever said anything like that to me. Ever.

I lean in for another kiss. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, and I want to lick his entire body. We press our foreheads together.

"Do you really want to go to the lodge?" his voice is hoarse.

He wants to go back to the cabin. With me. All of the possible things we could do together dance through my head. Like get naked next to the fireplace on that fuzzy white rug.

I'm sweating in my snowsuit as my imagination runs wild. I shake my head, and he rubs his nose against mine.

"No. No lodge. We've got cocoa back at the cabin," I murmur against his mouth.

He laughs and wraps his arms around me. Another gust howls through the trees and between that, my rubbery snowshoe leg muscles, and the shock of finding out that he adores me, my knees buckle. I wobble to my right, and he tries to steady me. But can't.

We tumble into the snow together, a nervous, giddy, tangle of arms and legs and snowshoes. Of laughter. Of kisses. Of anticipation of what's to come.

____