It’s so easy to lose track of what we have when it’s right in the palm of our hand. In just a few days, I’ve come to remember that I live in paradise. It’s colder in Vermont than it is in Manhattan. That’s one point to NYC. But nothing compares to the snowy mountains, blue skies and the picturesque views of the town nestled between a curtain of firs.

The buildings towering around us aren’t as appealing. I accept that I’m taken by the bright lights adorning the streets. There’s a holiday feel, but it’s not as intense or as inviting as the one we have in Kentbury.

The ice rink at Rockefeller center is okay, maybe even cute. It’s nothing like the beauty of our big lake in Kentbury, skirted by the vineyard and a few cabins, and filled with a peaceful silence. We don’t have big lines of people waiting for their turn to skate for just an hour on the lake.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Heath asks as I shiver.

Cold oozes through the soft cashmere sweater I wear.

A couple of layers should be enough, I said as I got dressed.

This is nothing compared to Vermont’s winter, I assured to myself as I left the hotel room.

Don’t be a wimp, Lee, I chide myself as a sting of cold air hits my face.

“Do you need my jacket?” Heath offers, his eyes creased at the corner.

“Nah, as soon as we’re skating, I’ll warm up,” I insist as we enter the VIP area. “So why exactly did we pay more than a hundred dollars?”

“Well, you won’t be freezing outside while you wait for your turn,” he explains, taking me into his powerful embrace and rubbing his hands on my back to warm me up.

I look up to him. His heavy-lidded gaze assesses me. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

Heath cups my face with one hand and lowers his head. I slide my arms around his neck and raise myself to meet him. My eyes drift shut when his mouth captures mine, his tongue flicks inside. My knees weaken. My heart gallops in my chest. The touch sends shivers of desire through my body, replacing the cold with a wildfire that warms every cell of my body and threatens to melt the entire city.

He kisses me gently. Slowly. Deep.

I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this. If anything, I would give everything to be kissed by Heath Miller for the rest of my life.

“Next,” someone yells, breaking the spell.

Heath tears his mouth free, groaning in protest. His breathing is heavy, just like his gaze.

“I want to go back to the hotel,” I request.

“What?” he asks in a gravelly voice.

“Sir, you’re next,” someone keeps calling us but at the moment nothing matters.

“We could be in my room, ordering some food,” I say suggestively.

Heath places his fingers on my cheek, caressing it. “We can’t skip any steps, Miss Harris. As much as I’d love to drag you back to my room. This is going to go slowly.”

“Even if it kills us with desire?”

“Where’s your patience?” He kisses the back of my neck. “Imagine how good it’ll be when it finally happens … So fucking good.” He winks at me.

For years, I’ve had the illusion that skating at Rockefeller center is magical. I blame John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale for letting me believe that the most romantic moment in one’s life would happen in Manhattan as I hold the hand of the man I love. Even when I spotted a gleam of desire in Heath’s mesmerizing blue eyes, the hour at the ice rink wasn’t as life-changing as I had hoped.

In Kentbury, at night we have the light of the moon to illuminate the lake. We’re surrounded by trees, the mountains, and snow.

“Maybe I put too much pressure on the ice rink, and that’s why it didn’t live up to its expectations,” I conclude as we enter the hotel.

Heath’s busy with his phone. Maybe he’s texting with Cassie or talking to one of his employees. I’m sure he’s not paying attention to my rant. I don’t blame him. He’s not one to watch rom-coms and expect that special moment to happen.

I am a different story. For the past eighteen years, I’ve been waiting for him to stand at the end of my driveway and serenade me with a boombox like Lloyd did in Say Anything. If not that, maybe he can sing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” like Patrick Verona did in Ten Things I Hate About You. I still hold out hope that he might list all the reasons why he loves me when it’s New Year’s Eve like Harry did with Sally.

“It’s a touristy spot, like the artificial pond we have on Main Street,” Heath says as we head toward the elevator. “Not everything you watch in movies can live in real life and vice versa.”

He slumps his shoulders and sighs. “Serendipity was actually filmed at Wollman Rink, in Central Park,” he says as a matter-of-fact.

“And there’s that. Though, I guess it’s romantic for someone who doesn’t have a frozen lake in their backyard,” I say.

“There’s another selling point. Remind me about it next week, please,” he requests. “Isn’t the lake part of the vineyard?”

“Technically, but the McCalls always let everyone enjoy it. Are you planning on making it private?” I glance at him tempted to ask him questions about his plans and wanting to give him ideas.

“You’ll find out next week,” he says. “As I explained earlier, this is a vacation. You’re off the clock. When was the last time you even went on vacation?”

I stare at the lights twinkling on the big Christmas tree. It’s been years since any of us have gone on a trip that doesn’t involve work. The only time my brothers or I leave home is to attend a conference or for training. We love what we do, but we’re consumed by work.

“You don’t take time off either,” I reply casually, stepping into the elevator and smiling at the couple who joins us.

“When Cassie and I visit Holden, we’re on vacation. I check out completely,” he says, poking the number to our floor.

“You call me,” I argue.

“That’s because I need to hear your voice every day,” he mumbles. “It’s almost impossible for me to exist when you’re not around.”

He lowers his forehead to mine. My heart kicks against my ribs, and it’s not only the fact that he’s right in my personal space, but that he’s admitting that he needs me as much as I do him. I stretch my neck and kiss him lightly. And I hate that we have other people in the elevator, there’s no privacy.

As soon as we get closer to our rooms, Heath suggests we go to his room. When we step inside, my mouth opens slightly in awe.

His room is bigger than mine. There’s a table for two on the left side next to the balcony. There’s a trail of red rose petals leading toward it. Instead of candles, Christmas lights are hanging from the walls. As he closes the door, Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” begins to play.