The #Kiss Trend (Trends of Betrayal #1)

Chapter 1

The Goal

Nate

Most people speak of their childhood home with dreamy reverence because it’s their bar for safety.

At mine, the foundation never held. For me, what we’ve built is what holds.

She’s half on top of me with her stomach pressed into me, her bare arm around my side.

I’m wrapped in the warmth and breathing solidness of us, and it’s the best security blanket I never knew I needed.

The strands of her raven hair cascade on my chest and face—tickling my nose, spilling into my mouth.

I brush them away, shaking my head and forcing my gritty eyes open.

Robyn’s got her head tucked against my bicep, her soft breaths warming my skin.

I suck in a lungful of air, but it’s all orange blossoms and sweetness, so I relax back into the mattress.

I turn on my side, snaking my arm over her hips and around her stomach, then haul her closer to me—until her back, bottom, and thighs press against my front.

It’s not enough. Threading my fingers through the tendrils, her breathing still slow, I trail open-mouthed kisses down her jaw toward her chin then back to the base of her neck.

She murmurs something, wriggling onto her back, and I move to hover over her, with her thighs caging my hips.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I murmur, my voice cracking from sleep.

She runs her fingers up my spine into my hair and draws me in until our noses touch. Nuzzling against my cheek despite the stubble growing there, she drops a kiss to the tip of my nose.

Her eyes are a blue like no other. Cobalt teal with an amber ring around her pupil—Murano glass catching the last ray of sun on a cathedral’s rose window. It makes my breath stutter every fucking time.

“Are you up?”

She shakes her head. “I think I’m still dreaming. There’s this man-shaped weight on top of me. Hairy.” Her fingers glide through the thick curls on my bare chest. “A little dangerous, and definitely very sexy. My boyfriend’s not this hot.”

“He isn’t, huh?” I thrust my hips against hers so she feels how hot she is. “Maybe you should consider an upgrade.”

“Maybe …” She drags the word out, then her voice softens. “But I do love him. Very much.”

It doesn’t matter that she’s told me a million times, my heart still beats faster, her words luring me more than any teasing ever could. I kiss her throat, closing my lips around the base of her neck and sucking. She lets out a deep, broken moan that goes straight through me.

“I don’t think he’d mind one bit,” I say, dipping my head farther and licking down the center of her chest.

She lets out a whimper. “Babe, you’re playing with fire.

We agreed—” I trace slow circles with the tip of my tongue at the swell of her breast. “We wouldn’t start anything.

” I lap at her skin again. “I’m about to jump on you if you don’t stop teasing.

” She lets out a shaky exhale. “And I really shouldn’t with your mom in the next room. ”

I groan, my boner deflating. “Way to kill the mood, Robyn.”

“I bet I could change that …” She arches into me, and the straps of her tank top slide down, allowing her skin to caress my chest. “I don’t think Rebecca would mind,” she adds, far too innocent. “She’s a worldly woman …”

There it is. The quickest, coldest shower of my life. “Nope.” I roll off her so fast my head hits the wall behind my twin bed. “Want to make sure we don’t do anything? Bring up my mom’s adventures.”

My girl laughs, and I’d take that sound over sex any day. Well … maybe not every day, but most days.

Robyn taps on my bicep. “Come on.” She jumps to her feet. “I’m so excited to cook breakfast with your mom. I also can’t wait for you to see your gift.”

I sit up, running a hand through my hair. The room is washed in pale winter light, the kind that makes everything look softer, almost suspended. Outside, a three-inch blanket of snow covers the lawn and roads.

My childhood room hasn’t changed—hanging on one wall is a ragged Vitruvian Man print, curling at the edges, and on the opposite is a pair of thumbtacked blueprint posters; a floating shelf’s lined with dusty balsa-wood model buildings I made at fourteen, including a tiny lopsided Fallingwater because Frank Lloyd Wright was and still is the man.

The ceiling is still dotted with glow-in-the-dark constellations that faintly catch the morning light.

I would’ve been embarrassed for any other girl I’ve dated to see how clueless and earnest I was as a teen.

Robyn’ll tease me about everything imaginable, but every time I talk about sharp angles or proportions, she smiles.

She asks about the shapes on my drawings and models.

And that does something to me, something warm and stupid and grounding.

It stuns my architect heart with pride that I get to call this woman mine.

A red knit sweater folded on the old wooden toy chest at the foot of my bed stands out against all my obsessive bedroom decor. It’s a handmade design—my mom’s masterpiece. And it’s mandatory on Christmas day.

Robyn’s fixing her hair with her fingers, not bothering to change out of her black-and-red-flannel pajama bottoms. Once she’s satisfied, she pulls a green sweater out of her small duffle bag. She unfolds it and places it over her torso, then my eyes widen when she finally turns to face me.

“No—” I chuckle. “She didn’t.”

“She did,” Robyn confirms, standing by the toy box as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “She said we weren’t really together if we’re not matching for the holiday.”

Against the green wool, there’s a yeti in a Santa shirt and hat, with a speech bubble over his head that reads: Where my pants?

—each letter squeezed too tightly into the space, even with the missing “are”.

Likely my mother’s spatial miscalculation.

That, coupled with how big the shirt is on Robyn, has a laugh bubbling out of me.

“You look ridiculous,” I say.

Standing, I grab the red sweater and pull it over my bare torso. It’ll be itchy as fuck, but I can’t layer it with an undershirt—I run hot as it is. Robyn assesses my quirky design along with me.

The thing is aggressively, unapologetically Christmas red.

Front and center is a gingerbread man, who should not be allowed within fifty feet of any holiday party, wearing a smug icing grin, gumdrop nipples, and has a peppermint swirl slapped right where his dignity should be.

Above him, in my mom’s classic I-can-eyeball-the-spacing handwriting, it reads: FROST ME in massive letters that draw all attention.

It’s obscene. It’s ridiculous. It’s unmistakably Mom’s. And the second I see Robyn trying—and failing—not to smile, it feels right in a way that hits me in the chest.

Having matching sweaters makes her more than my girlfriend. Wearing one of my mom’s sweaters is a claim. She’s family in that way only shared, awfully lovely traditions can make you. Well, except maybe that one other thing I want to get from Mom.

“I look ridiculous? You look worse,” she fires back, tugging hers straight, then grabbing my hand.

She tries lacing our fingers, but I want more, so I cup her face in my hands and drop a kiss on her lips. I keep my lips closed because although I don’t care about morning breath, she does, and then I press my forehead to hers.

“Thank you for being here,” I whisper, rubbing my nose against hers.

“Of course, Nate. I wouldn’t miss this.”

“But you did miss the holiday with your father to be with us.”

“And I’d do it again just to get this sweater.”

She loops an arm around my waist, and we gently rock.

“Maybe next year we can get our families together,” I say, a little tentative.

“I don’t know.” Her gaze shifts down. “Holidays with Dad are nothing like Rebecca’s crazy.” Robyn’s brow furrows, then she smiles. “Next year should be less crazy, though.”

I watch her features carefully, but with the tension gone, the crest between her eyes smooths. “I love your crazy,” I say, caressing her jaw with my thumb.

She’s right, though. I’d been all in on the idea of flying my mom out to meet her father this year … but she’s still buried in the tail end of her neurology residency. And that would be unnecessary stress.

Four more months, though. Then she’ll finally be on the other side of it—into fellowship or straight into attending life.

Either way, it means a schedule where we actually get evenings together.

Weekends. No more of Robyn being off when I have to work, or the other way around.

A chance to breathe and be together more.

She squeezes my hand and beams up at me, excitement sparking in her eyes. “Come on.” She tugs me toward the door. “Your mom probably already has half the kitchen going.”

Hand in hand, we move past the glow-in-the-dark stars and the blueprint posters.

My gaze catches sight of our hands, our matching sweaters, the way her thumb absentmindedly brushes the side of my finger.

And it’s not the first time I feel with certainty that this is everything I want my future to be.

“Come on, boyfriend upgrade. Let’s go make your mom happy.”

We follow the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sizzling butter.

The living room glows with the white-and-gold lights Mom insists stay up well past New Year’s, and the kitchen’s warm enough that the windows fog at the edges.

Mom’s already at the stove, red hair in a messy twist, gray streaks peeking through.

Her Christmas apron is tied over a silver sweater I know well.

The one with the Christmas tree folded onto itself and a speech bubble that reads: Bent out of shape? Just rub it straight!

“Finally,” Mom says without looking back. “Thought you two were hibernating up there.”

Robyn grins and steps into her space, bumping hips with her as she grabs the tongs to fuss with the bacon. “Thank you for the sweater, Mrs. Leight—”