Faking It with My Bossy Ex (Sweet Christmas Kisses)

17. Amy

Chapter 17

Amy

Dylan's fingers thread through my hair, and I can't help the shiver that runs down my spine. I lean into him, surprised at how easily we still fit together. His scent of soft leather surrounds me, bringing back a flood of memories.

His hand slides down my shoulder, coming to rest on my back. A warm tingle follows his touch, spreading across my skin like wildfire. He pulls me closer, and suddenly, there's no space between us. My heart's pounding so hard I wonder if he can feel it. I know I can feel his heart beating against my chest, and it makes this all feel so real.

Without thinking, my hands move. One finds its way to the back of his neck, and the other rests on his chest. I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, his firm muscles shifting slightly under my palm. It sends little sparks through me, making my fingertips buzz with electricity.

His lips press against mine with a desperate intensity that wipes away every logical thought. They're soft but insistent, and as the kiss deepens, I'm lost in the feel of him, the taste. I melt against him, my body softening as if my bones have turned to liquid. My fingers curl into his shirt, holding on like he's the only solid thing in my world right now.

His heartbeat echoes mine. I'm falling, drowning in this kiss.

What am I doing? I shouldn't allow this. But as his lips move against mine, I can't find the strength to pull away. It's like I've been parched for years, and he's an oasis in the desert.

Reality crashes back when we break apart, both of us breathing hard. My lips are tingling, still warm from his, and I already miss the feel of his. I open my eyes and find him looking at me with such tenderness it makes my chest ache.

At that moment, I knew. Everything's changed, and there's no going back.

“I'm … sorry.” He whispers, his voice hoarse. His hand untangles from my hair, framing my cheek as if it's painful to let go. “I shouldn't have …”

My eyes search his, looking for … what? Regret? Hope? I'm not even sure what I want to find.

“Dylan …” My words shake. “What was that for?”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Just practicing,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, but I can’t miss the strain in it. His thumb brushes my lower lip, feather light. For a moment, his eyes soften, the corners crinkling slightly as they did years ago when he'd look at me across a crowded room. But then he blinks, and it's gone, hidden away behind a careful mask.

“You know, in case we have to kiss when we win the competition. We'd want it to look natural.”

But nothing about this feels natural. His voice is strained, like each word costs him. I lean back slightly, needing space to think.

My mind is reeling. Dylan just kissed me, and I wanted it. I still want more. But I can't let myself go down that road. For all I know, this is just another act in our fake relationship.

“Right,” I whisper, the word tasting bitter on my lips.

I watch as Dylan's jaw tightens, a muscle flickering in his cheek. His eyes dart away for a split second before meeting mine again, now guarded and unreadable.

“We should go to bed.” His eyes search mine. I refuse to meet his gaze. I don’t want him to see how vulnerable I am, how close I am to shattering and letting him in. I want him so much more than I should.

“We should,” I say around the lump in my throat. My hands miss his warmth, my lips tingle from our kiss, and my heart refuses to calm down. As he climbs off the bed, my body aches for him to come back.

He disappears around the end of the bed and flips off the light. A second later, we’re thrown into pitch black. The bed sinks under his weight and we’re quiet for a long moment.

“Um, do you want my help with this wall? It’s kind of … dilapidated.”

I giggle, wiping away a tear that squeezes from the corner of my eye, glad he can’t see it. The way he cares for me, just like always, makes my heart hurt even more.

“Maybe dilapidated is fine. I think we can call a truce and leave it more as a marking of territory if you promise to stay on your side.” My tone steadies.

“I suppose that could be arranged.” There’s a laugh in his voice. Outside, the sound of the wind howling picks up.

“Sounds like it’s going to snow again tonight,” I say a bit nervously. Winter storms and loud noises, especially at night, are not my favorite. A crash in the distance makes me jump just a bit.

“You know, we haven’t really held hands yet,” he whispers.

“What? Why would we hold hands?” We used to hold hands all the time. Long walks in the park, watching a movie, or just having dinner together. Those times, I felt so safe, so happy, as if nothing could shake us.

How is it that we could go from that to being nothing so quickly? Suddenly, those days seem so far away. It’s almost like this is something new, something better, starting over. Could this be our second chance?

“We could hold hands to practice, you know, for the rest of the competition and stuff. We might be rusty at it.” Another gust of wind rips through the trees outside, making a terrible howling sound that makes me shiver. Inside the cabin, it’s as warm as it could possibly be.

“We could try it till the storm stops.” I relent. His hand slides under the barrier and finds mine, wrapping around it. It brings fresh tears to my eyes. Back when we were together, he’d always hold my hand when there was a storm outside. He’d make sure that I felt safe.

Yet another gust shakes the cabin, and for a moment, I wonder if it will hold. I squeeze Dylan’s hand. Somehow, things aren’t as scary when he’s with me.

“Don’t worry, Ames. It’s not getting in.” His voice is low and warm.

There are so many things I want to ask him, things I’ll probably never know the answers to. But tonight, I’ll let his hand in mine be enough.

It might be selfish of me, but just for a moment, I want to forget about the past. I want to think of laughing, joking, teasing Dylan. The one who buys me my favorite dessert, surprises me with ice skates, and makes gingerbread houses with me.

I want to let my mind wander and pretend that we never left one another and our life is right on track.

***

“So, what do you think the next competition is?” I lean against the table, trying to guess what it might be. I might not have wanted to take the whole competition thing seriously at first, but now that Dylan’s convinced me, I’m in.

In case I needed further convincing, Leo practically yelled at me in all caps, telling me I’d be out of my mind to give up a free cruise just because of a little “ex-drama.”

But standing here now, leaning closer to Dylan, it doesn’t feel so straightforward. All those old feelings I’d locked away are creeping back, like a flower pressing through cracks in concrete.

“Not sure, but whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll kill it.” Dylan grins at me, making my heart melt. It’s always been irresistible.

I can’t let myself fall just because he’s saying all the right things or because of that one kiss that made my heart skip a beat. Letting myself fall means risking that pain again, and I don’t know if I can handle that.

But what if this new Dylan really is different?

Sometimes I wish I had amnesia. Then I could fall in love and be in ignorant bliss to the past. This new version of Dylan is like Dylan 2.0. He’s everything I loved about Dylan, minus the heartbreak and that whole seeing-Clara-right-after thing.

“Good morning, everyone. I know you are all eager to hear what the next competition is.” Mrs. Parker has everyone's attention as she takes the mic. “It’s karaoke! Pick the song that illustrates your relationship and present it tonight. I’m so excited to see what you come up with.”

I groan. I’m not so sure about singing.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Singing? We’re no good at that.”

“Speak for yourself.” He chuckles. “I could have been a pop star if I’d chosen that as a career.”

“Right.” I almost choke on my coffee. My eyes go to the door behind him as it opens, letting in a gust of snow. This time, I choke.

There, at the entrance of the Cozy Haven Inn, is the one woman who yanks me back to reality. In a tight little dress suit that barely reaches her mid-thigh, red lipstick caked on, and those fluttering eyes is Clara Hayes.