“Come and get me,” he replied, the words floating to her on a wave of laughter. She felt as if he’d pinched her windpipe shut for a second. Come and get me.

I can’t I can’t I can’t I don’t know how.

That wasn’t what he’d meant. He was fine. He’d get over it. He’d get over her. For heaven’s sake, he was barely under her, while she was fucking crushed by the weight of him and always had been and—

She saw a flash of movement, the glint of his golden hair, and threw instinctively. A second later, he was standing there with snow all over his face, looking drunk as hell and shocked as shit, and Abbie was doubled over laughing.

“Abigail,” he growled, shaking his head like a dog.

“Too easy,” she told him, and it was like they were children again. This was all she wanted, all she needed: ease.

So why did everything feel slightly hollow now?

“You always had that unholy right arm,” he accused, and his voice came clear enough to indicate that he was close. Too close. Before she could dart away, he was there, grabbing the front of her jacket with one hand, using the other to shove a clump of snow down the back of her hood.

“Cheat,” she shrieked, trying and failing to squirm away. Icy wetness trickled down her spine, lighting up her nerve endings, forcing hysterical giggles from her diaphragm. “Argh! Fuck! Get off!”

He released her, but now he was the one doubled over with laughter. Abbie snatched up more snow and threw it at his gorgeous, irritating head, but he only laughed harder and grabbed her again and pulled her closer—

Oh.

His laughter cut out at the exact moment her humour was replaced by dangerous awareness. Whatever he’d intended to do, he seemed to have forgotten. Now he let go of her, his smile fading, his gaze all but burning away the few inches of space between them. There were little bits of snow clinging to his eyelashes, his eyebrows, his facial hair. His mouth was pink with the cold, and soft and familiar and so fucking dear.

“Abbie,” he said, and she could smell the sharp tang of good gin on his breath. An excellent reminder to stop whatever was happening here and step the fuck away. But before she could, he asked, the words only slightly slurred, “Why did you kiss me?”

She stared, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Why did you—”

And then the penny dropped, much like her heart. “Oh.” Oh God. She felt a bit sick. Was she breathing faster than usual? “Um. I don’t—I don’t know.” Fuck. They’d never talked about that. He’d never asked. And she’d avoided him like the fucking plague ever since because she hadn’t wanted him to ask.