Chapter 5
Blaire
“That is the saddest looking heart I’ve ever seen,” Thatcher says, shaking his head at our pitiful team effort to create a heart in the snow via our boots
It’s his fault, really.
Ever since the bakery, all I can think about is him taking a bite out of my neck.
It’s messing with my fucking head. Sure, Thatcher is easy on the eyes with all those hard muscles and tattoos.
He’s no doubt broken more than a few hearts in his day, but why am I suddenly feeling like I’m missing out on the fun by not being one of them?
“I think it’s fitting,” I say, studying the warped shape mostly to keep my eyes off Thatcher. It’s bad enough that we’re huddled beneath the same fuzzy blanket.
“It’s all fucked up, like us, huh?”
I let out an unexpected laugh as I picture a severely distorted shaped heart beating inside my chest. But hey, the poor guy’s still pumping blood to all the vital organs. Maybe it is time to stop wallowing in self-pity and start figuring out what comes next.
“Why did you call off your wedding, Blaire?”
“Pass.”
“No passing allowed. Says so on the card.”
“It does not.”
“Check for yourself,” he offers.
“Where’s the card?”
“In my back pocket.”
“You think I won’t.”
“I know you won’t.”
I move until I’m facing him and reach my hand around his waist. He just watches me, not fighting me, as I slip my fingers into the back pocket of jeans, silently cursing at how hard that ass is. Does he do fucking squats in his sleep?
“Blaire?”
“Hmm?”
“If you want to grab my ass, at least buy me dinner first.”
“Shut up,” I say, pulling the postcard free.
Pretending as though I’m not affected by his teasing words.
“For the record, that wasn’t an ass grab.
Trust me, you’ll know if I grab your ass.
” I skim the question side of the postcard looking for rules as we wait for the volunteers to sign us off for activity number two.
Shit. He’s right. No passes allowed.
“Well?” Thatcher says. “Did the bastard cheat on you?”
“No. And before you ask, no I did not cheat on him.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that.” The way he says it feels like a warm, comforting hug. He’s the first person who hasn’t questioned my faithfulness since I called off the wedding. Even my own parents, as understanding as they’ve been, still asked that.
“Why not?”
“Because I know you’re not that kind of person, Blaire.”
A layer of ice thaws from around my heart, and tears threaten the corners of my eyes.
I look away until I get myself under control and finally answer him.
“I called my wedding off because he canceled my flower order without consulting me. He told the florist we were going with fake flowers to save money.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You asked, that’s the answer.” I swallow the urge to tell Thatcher everything, certain that would be the easiest way to make the rest of the afternoon wildly uncomfortable.
How do I explain to anyone that my ex-fiancé is the cheapest millionaire I know?
It sounds so superficial. The truth is far more complicated than fake flowers.
“My turn to ask a question,” I say. “Why do you hate Valentine’s Day?”
“Where’s the fucking pass when you need one,” he mutters.
“Doesn’t feel so good when you’re the one in the hot seat, does it?”
“I broke up with the woman I thought I was going to marry two days before Valentine’s Day.
I thought I was going to propose to her, but instead of pulling out the ring I bought her at dinner, I broke up with her instead.
I didn’t even know I was going to do it.
But she made this comment about how we should’ve waited to have the nice date on Valentine’s Day because it would sound so much better when she posted about it. ”
“That’s awful.”
“I know it wasn’t my best move—”
“I meant of her,” I clarify. “Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about celebrating the love between two people. Not exploiting it for views.”
A woman with a red lanyard around her neck and a camera in hand approaches us. “Are you two ready for your picture?”
“Do we have to?” Thatcher jokes, pulling off the blanket we’ve been sharing and handing it to the woman.
“It’s not the worst one I’ve seen today,” the woman teases.
As we shuffle back into the snow, careful not to disturb the warped design we created with our boots, an idea pops into my head.
“We should kiss,” I tell Thatcher.
“What?”
“For the photo. We should kiss. I know you don’t care about views, but your ex clearly does. What better way to show her you’ve moved on then to post a picture of us kissing at the top of our snow heart with this epic view behind us?”
“You two ready?”
“Blaire—”
“Just do it, okay?”
“On the count of three,” the woman calls to us.
Thatcher is still hesitating when the woman calls two, so I grip his cheek with my left hand and tug his lips to mine.
It’s a chaste, full-lipped kiss. Not exactly thrilling, but it should do the trick for the photo.
“You two can do better than that,” the woman hollers to us. “C’mon Thatcher. Give that woman a real kiss.”
To my surprise, he does.
There’s nothing chaste or boring about the way Thatcher’s lips crash to mine that second time.
They move in a hungry rhythm that mine easily follow.
His tongue teases the seam of my lips until I part them, and then it’s game fucking over.
I grip the sleeves of his flannel shirt, holding on for dear life as that man destroys me with a single, heart-stopping, toe-curling, panty-melting kiss.
He pulls away so suddenly I nearly stumble backward into a snowbank.
Thatcher catches me, likely on account of not wanting to join me, and tugs me back to him. I snuggle into him, afraid to look him in the eyes. Because what the hell just happened? Who the hell was this man who just ruined every kiss I’ve ever dared to call swoon worthy in my entire fucking life?
“Now that was a kiss,” the woman calls to us.