Chapter 13 #2
The kitchen grew smaller with every passing minute. The silence between comments grew thicker. The music from my ancient Bluetooth speaker hummed in the background, some mellow indie Christmas playlist, but it faded under the rush of my own pulse in my ears.
Her hair slipped forward again. This time, before I could think better of it, I reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear.
She sucked in a breath, eyes going wide.
I started to pull my hand back, but she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Her cheek leaned infinitesimally into the touch before she caught herself.
I felt that like someone had hooked my ribcage and yanked.
Because talking seemed marginally safer than staring at her mouth, I said, “So, timing-wise, I’m thinking we need to know how long this actually takes from start to finish. From approach to finished product.”
She blinked once, twice, before latching onto the logistics like a lifeline. “Right. So we should run it the way we’re actually going to run it—with whatever version of rules we settle on, realistic expectations for how long people stand around dithering, factoring in cleanup and reset.”
“We’re already halfway there,” I said. “We’re just missing the dithering.”
Her lips twitched. “I can create some dithering if necessary.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said, and her laugh came out unexpectedly soft.
We moved back to the island, to the next “stop” on our mock route. “Holiday truth-or-dare Jenga” sounded like a good idea on paper. In practice, it involved us standing shoulder to shoulder around a wobbly tower of wood blocks, bumping into each other every time one of us reached.
She drew the first block, read it, snorted, and put it back. “Nope.”
“That’s cheating.”
“That one was clearly designed by Pepper and is therefore invalid.”
I plucked a block, read it, and slowly turned it so she could see: Tell the person across from you one thing you like about them.
She rolled her eyes. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s data,” I said, amused. “We’re testing.”
“You go first.”
“That’s not how across-from-you works,” I protested, but she folded her arms, looking at me expectantly.
I could’ve said something safe and general. You’re creative. You’re good at your job. The town loves you. All of which were true.
What came out instead was, “You care. A lot. Even when you pretend you don’t. About the business, about the town, about people. You carry more than anyone realizes.”
Her mouth parted. The air between us charged.
“That’s more than one thing,” she said quietly.
I didn’t look away. “Yeah. It is.”
Her pulse beat fast at the base of her throat. For a second, it seemed like she might answer in kind. Her lips parted. Closed. She put the block down like it was suddenly too heavy.
“I think,” she said, voice slightly rough, “this game may be too intense for Huckleberry Creek.”
I let her have the out. “Glitter glue it is.”
We abandoned the Jenga tower, but the question I’d dropped hummed under her skin. Under mine.
As we reset the cookie station to test a different time limit, she reached for the same frosting bag I did. Our fingers wrapped around it together—close, tight, in a way that didn’t seem accidental at all.
Everything tipped.
She slowly lifted her gaze to mine, like she knew exactly what she was doing and hated that she wanted to do it anyway. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown darker, fear and want all tangled up together.
“Jess,” I said, my voice coming out lower than I intended.
Her fingers tightened on the bag, knuckles brushing my palm. She didn’t move away. Didn’t make a joke. Didn’t roll her eyes or weaponize her sarcasm.
She watched me, like she was waiting to see what I’d do.
I didn’t rush. I leaned in slowly, giving her every inch of space to say no, to step back, to pull the old, familiar armor up around herself.
She didn’t.
Her gaze flicked to my mouth. The quick, instinctive motion locked my resolve. I closed the last inch between us, brushing my lips against hers in the barest, gentlest kiss.
She inhaled sharply, her hand curling into the front of my shirt. The frosting bag dropped to the counter with a soft thump. For one suspended second, everything hung there—the question, the fear, the wanting.
Then Jess kissed me back.
Her mouth moved under mine, tentative at first, then with a slow, gathering certainty.
She stepped closer, hips brushing the island, chest barely touching my torso.
The faint sweetness of cocoa warmed the edge of every breath we shared.
I slid a hand along her jaw, thumb resting beneath her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch with a quiet, helpless exhale that nearly unraveled me.
God, she felt incredible.
Warm. Fierce. Vulnerable in a way that made something protective flare in my chest.
I kissed her again, letting the pressure deepen a fraction, following her lead as she opened for me, as her fingers tightened in my shirt.
Heat flared low in my gut, sharp and insistent, but I kept it leashed, kept it slow.
This wasn’t about devouring. This was about answering a question that had been hanging between us for a decade.
She shifted closer, and the angle changed so the kiss moved from tentative to something perilously close to hungry. Her tongue brushed mine, light and quick, and my restraint stretched to threadbare in a heartbeat.
I let it deepen for a moment—long enough that the world fuzzed at the edges and every nerve in my body tuned itself to her.
And then it changed.
Her breath faltered, not with desire but with abrupt, sharp panic. The muscles in her shoulders locked. Her fingers in my shirt clenched, not to pull me closer, but like she suddenly needed something to hold on to.
She broke away fast, like she’d been burned, eyes wide and bright with shock.
“I—I can’t,” she stammered. “Powell, I just—”
“Hey, Jess, it’s okay—”
“I have to go.” She backed up, shaking her head, already reaching for her coat. “I can’t do this right now. I just—”
She didn’t finish. She shrugged into her coat one-armed, half-missing the sleeve, gave up trying to fix it, and bolted for the door.
“Jess—”
The door opened and closed in two rapid movements, a cold draft rushing in behind her like the space she left snapping shut.
Silence dropped into the kitchen with the finality of a gavel.
I stood there, breath unsteady, frosting smeared across my hand where I’d touched her earlier, heart pounding like I’d sprinted a mile in turnout gear.
She’d kissed me back.
Every part of her had said yes—until her brain woke up, threw every old wound and story on the table, and slammed on the brakes.
I dragged a hand down my face, half on the edge of laughter, half on the edge of panic.
“Jesus,” I whispered into the empty room. “What the hell do I do with that?”