Her knee stayed pressed against my thigh. My glove brushed her boot where it rested in the snow. Tiny points of contact, stupidly small, each one dragging my focus back to the fact that we were alone and flushed and buzzing with too much energy that had nowhere to go.
Clara sank down to kneel in the snow beside me, jeans darkening where they touched the powder. She looked at me the way she had at the bottom of the hill—like I’d done something more impressive than gravity and plastic could account for.
“You did good, Vaughn,” she said softly.
The praise hit with embarrassing force.
My throat went tight. “You assaulted me with recreational equipment,” I replied, aiming for dry and landing somewhere closer to fondness. “Minimal property damage, though. I’ll send you a bill.”
Her smile turned slow, satisfied, like she heard everything I wasn’t saying. “Pretty sure you owe me for that ride,” she countered. “Consider it exposure therapy.”
“Exposure therapy usually doesn’t involve attempted homicide.”
She tipped her head, eyes sliding over my face like she was trying to memorize something. “You’re laughing,” she said. “I’ll accept the charges.”
I hadn’t realized I was. A low raw sound still lived in my chest, an echo of the one that had ripped out of me on the way down. It felt foreign and familiar all at once.
Her gaze fell briefly to my mouth, then jerked back up. The move was quick. It still sliced a hot line through me.
Clara Darling had dragged me down a hill and straight into a reality I’d been avoiding for months.
I was still capable of joy. I was still capable of wanting.
And right now both of those things were sitting in the snow in front of me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, looking at me like I’d just done something that mattered.