CHARLOTTE

"Oh hey." I'm trying to be nonchalant, as if I just plopped down on the ground, legs splayed. The ice and fluffy snow numbs my ass cheeks.

"Whoa. You okay?" Oliver holds out his hand, and I take it. When my skin touches his, I'm instantly warm all over.

He smells exactly the same as he did when I last saw him. Like freshly laundered clothes, Florida sun, and a drop of dangerous, spicy-musk man smell that never fails to make my insides melt.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I look up at him. Snowflakes have accumulated in his dark, unruly hair. Looking at him makes my heart bounce in my chest like a beach ball. "My God, you've gotten taller. And bigger."

He grins. It's that wide, lazy Oliver smile that I've seen practically since I was born. Oh, shit. That smile never affected me until I turned fourteen. After that, I couldn't get enough of his smile.

Things have not changed one iota.

"Let's get inside, Sharkie." He lets go of one of my hands but keeps a grip on my upper arm, obviously wanting to steer me inside without another tumble.

That he remembers my childhood nickname—I used to love sharks, and the first syllable of my name is phonetically similar to the ocean predator—makes me laugh. "Thanks. I need to come out and get the rest of my stuff."

"I got it."

We step inside the door and heat washes over me. Butterflies seem to have suddenly taken up residence in my stomach.

"You have more than that big duffel?" His voice is low and growly. More man-like than I remember.

"Yeah. I do. There are two more suitcases in the back. I'll get them in a while." My eyes take in the cabin and land on a large stone fireplace, complete with crackling fire. We've never rented this place before, never had Christmas in Vermont before. It's way bigger than where we usually stay.

I turn back to Oliver and am immediately captivated by his piercing eyes. My mind goes temporarily blank. I smile. He smiles.

"Give me your keys. I'll get the rest of your stuff."

My brain powers back to life. "Oh! You sure? I can help."

I hand him the keys and our fingers touch. There's a zing and a zap, and the theme song to the Electric Company runs through my head.

"Yeah. Don't worry about it. Stay here and warm up." He flashes another brilliant smile and walks out.

His butt looks incredible in those sweatpants. I don't think I'll need the fire to warm me up if I keep staring at him. Yikes.

I walk around the large living room, checking out the massive Christmas tree in the corner that's done up in gold and red tones. That must be Mom's doing. I'm sure she called ahead and requested it, right down to the gilded angel on top. She's a detail person.

The living room is bland in the way that all upscale homes are. There's a high wooden ceiling, a U-shaped sofa, and...wait. Red deer heads? Maybe it's not so bland. I tilt my head and study the three ridiculous heads attached above the stone fireplace. They're not real. In fact, they're plastic. Like pop art. They somehow look decent with the traditional décor, as if Andy Warhol created something for a ski lodge.

That's when I spot a pillow on the massive console sofa. It says SKI LODGE in large red letters. I grin. Probably Mom chose this place because of those little touches. She likes the quirky and silly and will never pass up the absurdly ironic.

The door slams shut, and I turn. Oliver's hauling my big suitcase, a smaller duffel, a backpack, and a large vegan leather purse into the living room.

"Oh, you don't have to carry all that. Thanks." I rush over to him and relieve him of the purse and the backpack. I expect him to comment on how I over packed, because that's what guys do: make fun of women for insignificant crap.

"Might as well get this to your room." Odd. I never noticed how deep Oliver's voice was. Then again, I haven't seen him in six years.

"Um, which bedroom's mine?"

He shrugs. "Whichever you want. There are two downstairs and four upstairs. They each have their own bath, and as far as I can tell, they're all about the same size. Big."

"I'm not picky. I'll just take one upstairs. Lead the way."

Don't look at his ass...don't look at his ass...don't...oh hell. I'm going to look. Seeing Oliver's muscular frame reminds me of beaches and swimsuits and home.

Even after three and a half years at a Vermont college, I'm still homesick for Florida. Don't get me wrong; I love it here. Love the trees and the quiet and yeah, even the snow.

But there's nothing like a handsome, half naked, bronze man on the beach, amirite?

Oliver pushes open a door, and we're inside a room decorated in shades of lavender and cream. There's a framed print of a cartoon dog on skis, which reminds me of the gift I bought for Mom. The bed is draped in a soft-looking lavender blanket.

"This okay?" Oliver stands by a wide brown leather chair and matching footrest.

"Totally okay, yeah." I go to him and tug the duffel off his shoulder, realizing that I'm treating him like he's the bellhop or something. Which is hilarious and awkward because he's probably the richest guy in our home state of Florida under the age of twenty-five. "Thanks. You didn't have to do that."

He shrugs and grins again. It's what I've always loved about Oliver, that even though he's from a wealthy family—far wealthier than my own—he's humble. Polite. Kind.

Which is what made our last encounter all the more baffling.

We lock eyes, and a zing of awareness shoots through me. Oliver's part Cuban, from his dad's side. He obviously inherited the classic Spanish Caribbean DNA: dark hair, dark eyebrows, and bronze skin. His eyes are like obsidian, near-black and gleaming, and when I was younger, I always felt I could get lost in them. Things haven't changed, apparently. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as burned toast.

"Thanks," I repeat. My gaze falters to the large bed, and then back to his eyes. Apparently along with his height, his shoulders, and his muscles, his eyelashes have also grown since I last saw him. "So. How's Boston? How's MIT? You're getting your Master's right? Business? How was Panama? We haven't talked in so long."

"Panama? It was okay. Glad I'm back in the States. I'm in a finance program. It's...wow." He runs a hand through that thick dark hair. "Hardest thing I've ever done."

"That must be saying something. You always aced every class you ever took." Even though we didn't go to the same schools—Oliver went to an all-boys private school in St. Augustine, hours from where I grew up. I was in public school in Orlando at the insistence of my mother. Still, I'd heard all about how brilliant he was from his sister. And my mother. And my father. And everyone who knew him.

While his brother was the athlete and as handsome as any GQ model, Oliver took after his sister. All through school, he was wiry and beanpole-tall. Awkward, too. I think in middle school, he might have even had a pocket protector for his pens, but he sprouted a veneer of geek-cool in high school. And yet, I adored him as if he were Justin Timberlake.

I stare at his chest without blinking.

He chuckles. Can he tell I'm checking him out?

"Yeah, I look a little different. I've been going to the gym."

Gah. Embarrassing! "You look good." Understatement of the year.

"So do you."

"Thanks." My face blooms hot, and I inspect the strap of my duffel. When I raise my eyes, I notice he's staring at me.

"How's University of Vermont? Wait, don't answer that." He takes a step back in the direction of the door. "Sorry. I should let you do your thing in here. Unpack and stuff. " He points to the door, and I see a subtle flush of pink bloom on the tops of his cheeks. "We can talk later. If you want. I'll be out there, watching TV."

He grins again and looks down, almost bashfully. Then he strides out.

And I'm left standing in the middle of this unfamiliar bedroom, nose in the air like a cat searching for nip, so I can catch another addictive whiff of him. 

OLIVER

Charlotte King is the only woman I've ever loved.

I knew it when I was seven, and she kissed me on the cheek. I knew it when I was seventeen and kissed her full on the mouth, tongue and all. That had been my big moment, and I blew it.

She was fifteen. I was going away to college in New York, filled with anticipation and bravado. I'd wanted to kiss her for a while and worked up the courage that night on the boardwalk through the ocean dunes.

It was our first kiss on my last night in Florida. My dad interrupted us, and he later made me feel like I'd done something wrong.

She's only fifteen, he said in a voice I'd never heard. Dad didn't usually get angry, but he sounded incredulous and pissed. You're going to college.

By the time I was in my dorm room a week later, it hit me how young she was. And I felt ashamed, like I'd done something wrong. I was on my own, about to turn eighteen, a man. She was a girl.

I assumed my feelings would fade with the years. They haven't. Now she's twenty-one and even more gorgeous. She still has that devilish glint in her eye, the one that always makes me think of endless possibilities. Of spontaneous road trips and beach bonfires and singing along to '80s music.

I love her spark. She's not going through the motions like so many people.

While I pace the living room of the cabin, I wonder if I should've stayed in Boston for Christmas, holed up in the library. But when Mom asked me to spend winter break here, I jumped at the chance. Even though I have papers to write and books to read.

It was a chance to see her. To make things right. To see if my feelings for her were still there.

They're here, alright. They came raging back the moment I laid eyes on her. Her spark has turned into a goddamned wildfire.

I walk into the kitchen and yank open the fridge door, nervous. Maybe she'll want to eat? Now that we're in this mountain cabin alone, I'm not sure what to do. How to act. What to say.

I've never been good with women. I had a few casual girlfriends in high school, nothing serious. Same with undergrad.

Now that I'm in grad school, I've been trying. Even been on a few dates in the past couple of months. It's hard because my dad's kind of well known, and some women are attracted to me just for money. Or they've heard of my brother and assume I'm some playboy like him. And I've been so busy studying that I told myself that I didn't have time for anything serious. I need to focus if I want to someday take over Dad's company.

It's all true. Sort of.

Deep down, I've been waiting for her.

Over the years, I've never forgotten how Charlotte made me feel. How easy she was to talk to. Her laughter. How her quirky, hippie clothes accentuated her classic beauty. What's up with that fluffy scarf she had on, anyway? It looked like someone sewed cotton candy around her neck. Still, she looked amazing.

Growing up, my family would always visit the King family. Or they'd visit us. Vacations, weekends, trips to Disney.

Charlotte was the highlight of every moment.

She never cared that she was subtly different than other kids. And that made everyone want to be her friend. That could've made her stuck up, but she marched on to her own unusual beat and connected with everyone. Even me, the geeky Cuban kid who liked math.

I even coined her nickname: Sharkie. It was when I was about eight, and she was six. She loved sharks. Adored them. Forced me to sit through Shark Week three years running, and Jaws One, Two, and Three when we were in middle school.

So, because the first syllable of her name is pronounced shar, I started calling her Sharkie. Soon, everyone else did too. It's both adorable and fierce, two words that describe her perfectly. She's still so goddamned beautiful that it makes me ache.

Her dark curls tumbling everywhere, a stunning contrast to her alabaster skin. Those sky-blue eyes. Her smile. It's like angels sing in a chorus when she smiles. And how she's short, and how she has sexy curves...and, and, and.

If I were like my older brother Alex, I'd be in bed with her right this second. He's a famous soccer player in Madrid who screws a different woman every night of the week.

I'm more like Dad, who never forgot his first love. Never let go of my mom from the moment he met her, even though they were apart for a few years. His soul burned for her, he told me. Nothing would ever compare to her, he said. Not any model or actress. Not the moon or the stars.

He told me all that recently, when we were out to dinner.

Dad can be a bit dramatic.

But as he told me stories about falling in love with Mom, I nodded. I knew what he was talking about. Charlotte has been written in my soul since birth.

And now that we're alone together, it's time to tell her how I feel.

I shut the fridge and open the freezer door. I spot a frozen vegetarian pizza. She always loved that. I'll start there.

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