Amy didn’t know what had come over her back at the bridge, but she could still taste him on her lips and was still tingling all over from the possessive way he’d gripped her shoulders, keeping her from tipping over.

She’d kissed him. Kissed him! She couldn’t even really explain why, except that something had happened between one side of the bridge and the other. Nothing tangible, nothing specific she could put her finger on, nothing but a connection that ran between them, both poignant and sweet at what they’d lost and what they’d gained over the years since they’d last met.

And when she’d looked into his eyes she’d seen a flash of hunger there, a glimpse of the man he’d once been, who’d looked at her as if there was no one else in the world he’d rather be with at that moment. The same breathless feeling had overcome her.

Back then the kiss had been wild and reckless; this time it had been soft and sweet. But no less devastating.

Now, though, as they entered his apartment, she was reminded of the differences in their lives. Differences that would be impossible to overcome. The very thought was precipitous, wasn’t it? He certainly wasn’t in the market for romance, and neither was she.

“Home sweet home,” he said quietly, shutting the door.

“Indeed.” She tried a smile. “Before I dig out the ornaments, do you have a big pot we can use on the stove?”

He frowned, clearly puzzled. “A pot? What for?”

She had to restore some normalcy to their interaction or she was going to kiss him again. Once really didn’t seem like enough, and her voice of logic wasn’t speaking loudly enough tonight. Distraction was the only way she was going to keep from compounding her mistake of earlier . . . if it could be called a mistake. It didn’t really feel like it.

She reached into her tote and pulled out a bag of popcorn kernels. “We’re going to string popcorn for your tree.”

He stared at her with such a blank look that she burst out laughing. It helped to dispel a little of the tension still simmering between them. “What, you’ve never done it before?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

For the second time in as many days, she was incredibly thankful for her upbringing. She certainly didn’t pry further; she suspected his response would be that none of his homes had really done any of these activities. One day she’d like to talk to him more about his childhood. She knew foster parents, had grown up with foster kids in her neighborhood. Some had flourished, others not so much. It was sad to think that George was one of the ones who’d somehow fallen between the cracks. All Ian had ever said was that George had been bounced from home to home, and then when he’d turned eighteen he’d signed up and the army had become his home.

Which meant he’d been homeless in more than one way since he’d been discharged. She hadn’t considered that before.

“Well,” she said, shaking off the sad thoughts, “there’s a first time for everything. Our mom never let us put these on our main tree, but we had this little artificial bottle brush thing that we kept in the downstairs den, and she let Ian and I decorate it however we wanted. We went crazy every year with the tackiest decorations we could find, usually at a local dollar store. I’ve got everything here we need. Popcorn, needles, string, cranberries . . .”

“Cranberries?”

“And if there’s any popcorn left over, we can eat it.” She didn’t tell him that there was hardly ever any left and that they’d have to pop more than one batch. Baby steps.

But George seemed game for it all, found a big pot, and they began popping. He swatted her hand when she reached for a few kernels, and then laughed when she stuck out her lower lip in mock outrage. They sat at his little table, a huge bowl of popcorn between them, and a large bag of ruby-red cranberries, and started stringing.

Amy didn’t see a stereo or anything around, and a cursory glimpse at the TV revealed no cable box . . . did it even work or was it simply a piece of his furniture? Instead of asking, she took out her phone and splurged, just this once, by turning on her data. A few clicks later and Christmas music filled the silence, a bit thin and tinny in the phone’s speakers, but festive just the same.

“You have Christmas music on your phone?” he asked, then put his tongue between his teeth as he poked the needle through a cranberry.

“It’s a streaming service. I have a subscription.”

“It’s nice.” He smiled at her and she picked up a piece of popcorn.

“George, about what happened in the park . . .”

His gaze touched hers. The sparks she’d felt when they’d kissed came back full force, making her breath catch.

Then he looked down again, and started to string a piece of popcorn. Her eyes followed the movement, and she saw his fingers were shaking.

“George.” She whispered now, though she couldn’t explain why. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. That was all I was going to say.”

He didn’t look at her. “You regret it.”

“No! I mean . . .” Oh Lord. Why had she even mentioned it? “You . . . you’re still a very good kisser.”

Now he looked at her. “Be careful, Amy. This would be a big mistake, don’t you think?”

If he’d just said it would be a mistake rather than asking her opinion, she might have left it alone. She put down her needle and thread. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just know that I still find you very attractive.”

A blush colored the crest of his cheeks, and it delighted her.

“And you’re a pretty woman. Not just pretty . . .” He stumbled over his words a bit, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Listen, you got what you wanted from me. Maybe it would be best if you went home. This is just going to complicate things.”

He was right, but it had been so long since she’d felt anything like this that she was loathe to let it go without at least exploring it a bit. “If we . . . I mean, I’m going home at Christmas. I’m only here another week. Can’t we agree to enjoy the time a bit . . . together?”

He kept stringing popcorn, faster and faster, forgetting to put a cranberry in at regular intervals. “I don’t know how to do anything casual anymore. I know I used to be that way, but things change. I’ve changed.”

She got up from her chair and went to him, squatted down beside him, and stilled his busy hands with her own. “The thing is, George, you see your changes as being a problem. And I see them as a sign of growth and strength and courage. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about your apartment, or your rusty truck, or your job. Don’t shake your head at me, either. I’ve seen the look on your face when you think I’m not looking. You judge yourself far harder than anyone else does. Things mean nothing to me. Character does. And you’ve got that in spades, George. You always did.” She and Liam had had a decent life, but in the end their house and favorite restaurants and good jobs and circle of friends hadn’t been able to save their marriage.

He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Oh, don’t be fooled, Amy. I wasn’t honest with you back then, and I wasn’t honest with Jennie or even myself.”

“So you made mistakes. Haven’t we all? It doesn’t mean you weren’t—that you aren’t—a good man, in here.” She reached up and placed her hand on his chest.

He put his hand over hers.

“Amy . . .”

She stood up and told herself to not overthink anything, but to do what felt right. She slid onto his lap, heard the sharp intake of breath that relayed his surprise, felt his warm, strong hands settle on her hips.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Just shh.”

She sank her fingers into his short, dark hair, then let them slide over his scalp, tracing the hairline of his forehead, down along his cheek where his hair turned from brown to gray. It was soft, silky, and smelled of his shampoo. Her fingertips grazed his cheekbones, slid over his eyelids, down the bridge of his nose where the end turned up just a little. And still she kept her eyes closed, seeing him by touch alone, imagining each feature as she read them with her fingers. She rubbed her thumb over his full lower lip, and a flash of desire darted straight to her core when he grabbed for her thumb with his teeth.

Whatever had happened to him in the intervening years didn’t matter. The man before her right now was strong, sexy, and if she were any judge, as turned on as she was right now.

She was debating whether she should kiss him again when he took matters into his own hands. He slid one hand around her neck, pulling her closer, and kissed her.

Kissed her the way he’d kissed her all those years ago, on her parents’ back step with the outside light turned off for privacy. And now, like then, her knees went weak, saved only by the fact that she was sitting on his lap and not required to be upright.

She clung to him tightly as the kiss built into something wild and sensual, like she was that last bit of water in the desert and he’d die if he didn’t drink. Her body responded with a rush—God, it was good to feel wanted again—and she curled herself around him, a small sound issuing from her throat.

His body tightened beneath hers and their breath came faster, harder. But still he stayed in the chair and didn’t make any attempt to move them in any way. She bit down on his lip, just a light nibble, and he ran his hand up her ribs to cup her breast in his palm. She pressed into it, imagining what it would be like for him to peel off her sweater and bra . . .

He broke off the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. “Jesus,” he murmured, breathing heavily. “We’ve got to stop, Amy.”

“I don’t want to stop,” she answered honestly.

“Don’t say that . . .”

She heard the longing in his voice. He wanted her, too. What a revelation. And it would be good, wouldn’t it? She’d always thought so. Wondered a time or two this week if he’d changed too much, if they’d both changed to a point where the chemistry would be gone. But it was very alive and well, wasn’t it?

“It’s the truth,” she whispered, shifting her head to drop little kisses on his cheeks. “You feel so good.”

He didn’t say anything, and she drew back to find him with his eyes closed, his jaw tight. Unease settled in her chest. “Did I say something wrong?”

George shook his head. “No. And it’s not that I don’t want to.” He made a strangled sound, halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Believe me. But it would be a mistake, Amy, and you were right earlier this week. Ian would be ashamed of how I’ve acted. I won’t compound that with disrespecting his memory further by sleeping with his sister.”

He picked a hell of a time to be honorable.

He was also right. Sex right now would be a one-night proposition, and they both deserved better. Her brain and heart knew it. She just had to convey the message to her body, which still hummed from his touch.

“But kissing,” he continued, “kissing might be okay. Because I could kiss you all night.”

She sat back a bit and cupped his face. He looked into her eyes. There was a vulnerability she hadn’t anticipated, and she realized with a start that this was a bigger moment for him than it was for her. She was the one who needed to be patient. Who needed to think of his needs before her own, or at the very least give them equal weight. What George needed right now was affection, acceptance. A slow burn rather than a raging fire. She probably needed that, too, if she were totally honest with herself.

“I like kissing,” she admitted, curling into his embrace. “I happen to like kissing a lot.”

And so they kissed—what Amy would have called “making out”—in his kitchen chair until they both decided they’d drunk their fill.

And then they strung more popcorn and cranberries, looped the strands around the tree, and hung the ornaments. When they were done, George stood back and stared at the spruce. “I like it,” he decreed.

“Me, too,” she answered, standing beside him, leaning against his arm. “It’s not a showstopper, but it’s yours. And that’s exactly how it should be.”

Her phone battery had died a while back, so she looked on the little microwave in the kitchen and saw that it was after midnight. “I should probably get back home.”

“I’ll drive you. Don’t forget your bag.”

“Do you want to walk? It’s not that far, and it’s a beautiful night.”

“If you want to.”

They bundled up and were careful to be quiet on the stairs, then stepped out into the wintery night. The flurries had stopped and the moon was out, its bright light reflecting off the snow as they made their way toward Bedford Cottage. He held her hand, and she wondered at all that had happened tonight. The date, meeting his friends, the surprising physical developments in their relationship. But what would happen in a week when she went back to Brooklyn and he stayed here? What prospect did they have other than a holiday fling or, if they wanted to put a more serious tag on it, a way to find closure from the past? Could she walk away and not see him again?

After tonight, was it possible for them to be just friends?

He’d been right. Sleeping together would have been a mistake.

“You’re very quiet.” His voice was deep in the snowy silence.

“Just thinking.”

“Me, too. Wondering what we’re doing. What it means in the big scheme of things.”

“Me, too.”

“You figured it out yet?” He looked over at her briefly.

“Not even close.”

“Me, either.” He squeezed her hand. “But if I wanted to keep it simple, I’d say I want to enjoy the next week with you. And that I am fully aware that you’re going back to your life on Christmas Eve. That’s what I know for sure.”

“And you think we can manage that?”

He nudged her with his elbow. “Honey, after the last decade? I can handle a week with you, no problem.”

But that wasn’t what she’d meant. She wondered if it would be so easy to walk away. There was no other alternative, either. She could go right now and put an end to anything between them. Or she could stay and give herself the gift of this one week. If he swore he could do it, she could too, right?