When we get back to the house after our coffee/grocery run, I check the train website, but they’re still busy clearing the tracks. I’m not quite uncomfortable enough to want to pay for a taxi all the way back to Brooklyn. But Oliver is right there beside me, with his eyes, and his lips, and his hands—

I need a cold shower. Alone.

“Oh, thank you!” Oliver’s mom says when she sees the bags of groceries we hauled back. Looking around the kitchen, I have the perfect brainstorm.

“Can I help you with the baking?” I ask. “I’ve never gotten to do much at home.” My mom takes the mindset that there’s no point in going to the trouble of baking anything you can just buy at a store.

Plus, the chances of Oliver and I tearing each other’s clothes off is somewhat lower with a chaperone around.

Oliver’s mom beams at me. “That would be lovely. I could always use another set of hands.”

I throw myself into the mixing of dough and rolling of cookies. It’s tasty work, at least. What good is baking if you can’t sample the goods along the way? I am fearless—raw eggs don’t scare me!

Soon, a buttery-sweet smell fills the kitchen and lulls my worries into a sugar coma. Why was I so worried about hooking up with Oliver anyway? We’re both adults. I’m obviously not getting the part in Serendipity after my blow-up yesterday, so he can’t be seeing this as some kind of casting couch situation. Plus, he has been awfully gentlemanly about the whole situation, lustful glances and teasing innuendo aside.

What happens in Connecticut, stays in Connecticut.

It’s late in the afternoon before Oliver appears in the kitchen doorway. He steps into the room and swipes his thumb over my cheek. “You’re wearing the cocoa powder.”

“It’s a new fashion trend,” I quip. “Didn’t you know?”

His touch has left my heart thumping. He’s standing so close that I can smell his piney cologne. It would be really bad form to jump him right here in front of his mom, wouldn’t it?

Down, girl.

“It looks like the train schedule is still out of whack, but whatever happens, I’ve got to head back to the city tomorrow,” he says. “So, I’ll definitely get you back there one way or another then. In the meantime . . . We were thinking of heading to a pub in town to grab dinner. Sound good?”

I would rather grab him and drag him up to that guest room, but dinner first might not be a bad thing. Stamina, and all. “Sure.”

I glance at his mom, and she waves us away. “You young folk enjoy yourselves. We don’t expect you to stay cooped up in the house the entire holiday.”

The “young folk” turns out to be me, Oliver, his sister Hallie, and his brother Ben and his wife Allison, plus a couple of the cousins—who I still can’t tell apart. We tramp along the same route Oliver and I took to the grocery store this morning. I remember exactly where he tackled me. A fresh layer of snow has filled in the impressions of our bodies.

I can’t help sneaking a look at Oliver. The corner of his mouth curls up when I catch his eye. Oh, yeah, he’s definitely remembering the same thing.

The pub we end up at is a homey place: lots of varnished wood, leather seats on the barstools, a cluster of tables at one end and a couple of pool tables set up at the other. The tables are small, and Oliver sits kitty-corner to me at ours. His knee stays pressed against mine all through dinner. I’m sure the burger and salad I inhale taste great, but his nearness means I hardly notice a bite.

One of the cousins gestures us over to the pool tables. “Ready for this year’s battle?”

Allison rolls her eyes. “It’s tradition,” she tells me, looking weary. “And believe me, they take the competition seriously. But at least this year I’ll have you for company while they fight it out.”

“Who wins?” I ask.

“Ben likes to pretend it’s a close one, but Oliver wipes the floor with them. Every year.”

“Does he now . . . ?” I watch as Oliver racks the balls, looking way too confident. “Maybe it’s time someone knocked him off that throne.”

I get up and saunter over. “Room for one more?”

“Always.” Oliver smiles. “But I should warn you, we play to win.”

“Good.” I give him a challenging grin. “So do I.” I stroll closer, moving just behind him to take a pool cue from the rack. As I do, I lean in and murmur, “And I play dirty.”

I feel him tense in surprise. His smile turns wicked. “You do, do you?”

I nod, holding his gaze with a flirty look. “Want to make it interesting with a little wager?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Hmmm . . . I’ll let you decide.” I give a wink and lean over to take the opening break. It’s a sharp, clean shot, and I manage to sink two stripes with it. I look up in time to see Oliver, Ben, and the cousins with their jaws dropped.

“Oh, I didn’t mention, I’ve played a little.” I grin. “Who’s up?”

Ben laughs. “You can take this game,” he says, slapping Oliver on the back. “Good luck!”

When Oliver leans over to take his first shot, his expression turns serious. He really wants to compete, does he? I amble around the table so I’m in his line of sight. Then I rest my arms on the edge as if studying the spread of the balls, showing my cleavage to full effect. Oliver’s grip on the cue wavers. He hits the ball slightly off center. When he straightens up, I do too. He glowers at me, but with the best kind of heat.

“My turn?” I graze my hand down his arm as I reach to take the cue.

“Eager to get at those balls, are you?”

“A girl’s got to have a little fun.” I wink at him and bend over, letting my ass accidentally-on-purpose brush his thigh. Oliver’s chuckle sounds a little hoarse.

While the others battle it out on the next table, Oliver comes to stand behind me. He rests his hands on my upper arms. I resist the urge to lean back into him. I know that body would feel so good against mine.

“Enjoying the game?” I ask lightly, setting up my next shot.

“More than I probably should be,” he murmurs. His breath grazes my neck. I can almost feel what it’d be like for him to kiss me there. I’m almost dying because he isn’t.

“No such thing,” I say—and promptly sink three balls in a row. My victory is swift, and from the celebrations of the rest of the family, I can tell it’s been a long time coming, knocking Oliver from the champion’s position. But I don’t care about my win—not with the heat between us smoldering, and that look in his eyes whenever I lean in close.

I want him, and I want him bad.

We head home before midnight, and in theory, the walk through the wintery air should cool us off. But the second we step head upstairs and close the bedroom door behind us, the temperature inside skyrockets.

Oliver and I look at the bed and the too-short nightshirt folded on it. My pulse is racing. Other than that one quick make-out in the snow, it’s been all talk between us. Teasing and flirting . . . He must have actresses throwing themselves at him all the time. I don’t want to be just another one of those girls.

But I do want him.

Oliver clears his throat and takes a step back toward the door. “We can do the same thing as last night. My parents will probably turn in soon. If you want to get changed . . .” He turns so his back is to me.

Part of me wants to tell him to turn around and watch. To see the expression on his face as I peel off my clothes. But that would really be throwing myself at him.

I wet my lips and tug off my jeans and shirt. Pull on the nightie. Then I sit on the edge of the bed without pulling anything over my lap. My legs are bare all the way to the top of my thighs. But it’s not completely indecent. “Ready,” I say, my voice more confident than I feel.

A single bed in his parents’ house, and it’s still the most sexual tension I’ve felt in, well, ever.

When Oliver turns around, his gaze drops to my legs. And stays there.

I smile. “You might as well at least sit down,” I say, patting the bed beside me. “There’s lots of room.”

He lowers himself gingerly onto the edge of the bed about a foot away from me. The warmth of his body radiates across that distance. He looks at me with a crooked smile. “Crazy couple of days, huh?”

“It’s the holidays.” I smile again, wondering if I can jump him yet. “They’re supposed to be a little crazy, right?”

He swallows. I wonder if he’s thinking of the other sorts of craziness we could get up to. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a Christmas quite like this.”

“And it’s not even Christmas yet,” I point out. “It could get even better.”

Our eyes meet, and just like that, it is better. Oliver lets out a mumbled curse under his breath, and then he’s reaching for me, yanking me closer and capturing my mouth in a searing kiss. His fingers tangle in my hair, and his other hand skims up the side of my bare thigh. My breath catches. I kiss him again, sliding my hand up under his shirt.

Fuck me, his bare skin and taut muscles feel even better than I imagined.

Oliver pulls me even closer, tugging my legs over his lap. His hand moves higher, teasing along the edge of my panties. He kisses my jaw, and then the side of my neck. I exhale in a shudder of pleasure.

This is definitely the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten.

Oliver pulls back for a second, just a few inches. He gazes into my eyes, the lust in his so dark it makes my core ache even though his fingers haven’t quite inched that far yet.

Then his brow furrows. His gaze shifts to my cheek. He touches the skin there, and a burning itch prickles into my skin.

Not the sexy kind of burning, but the “owww, this isn’t good” kind.

“Are you OK?” Oliver asks, looking concerned. And then horrified. “Oh my God, Jill, your face!”

I leap up, and dash to the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, wide-eyed in horror. Covered in bumpy, red, itching hives.