Lovelight Farms (Lovelight, #1)

by B.K. Borison

Luka filled the empty places in my life slowly, carefully, with his easy smile and stupid jokes. He brought me back to myself.

But it has always been enough to make me feel like maybe he might want me the same way I’ve always wanted him. More than a friend. More than anything.

There’s a special kind of magic on nights like this, a certain sort of nostalgia when the past intermingles with the present and flirts with the future.

“Hey, La La.”

And isn’t it silly to love the way someone’s things look like next to yours? Little bits and pieces of lives lived in parallel.

just because you let yourself love someone doesn’t mean they’re going to leave.”

“Do you promise?” I’m not ashamed of how my voice shakes around the edges, the tightness in my throat. He needs to know how important this is. I’m not willing to do any of it if it means losing him in the process. He laces our fingers together and squeezes. His eyes are earnest, and it’s easy to believe him. “I promise.”

“I never want to hear the term postcoital come out of your mouth again.”

“I’m going to kiss you, and we’re going to deal with it like two mature, consenting adults. And when I come back, and when Evelyn is here, you won’t be worked up about it. And it will be fine.”

I flex my fingers in my pockets and feel the sharp edge of firm paper, a piece of string catching on my pinky. I pull it out and smile. A pine-scented air freshener in the shape of a tree from the gas station just down the road.

I’ve always loved Christmas and everything that comes with it. It’s the one time of year where everything feels like magic. Hopeful, earnest, and kind. The whole world slows down and . . . believes for once.

He looks like sugar and spice and everything not so nice, sleep rumpled and flushed in my bed.

“Were you jealous, fake boyfriend?” He scoffs, hand spreading wide to trace between my shoulder blades. He works out a particularly stubborn knot on my left side, and I melt into him. I expect him to deny it, to change the subject, but he surprises me again. “Of course I was. You were holding a plate of donuts. And you’re wearing your sleep shorts that have dancing nutcrackers on them.”

“Okay, you can have them.” I nod at the cookies in his hands. “My cookies and my smiles.”

Let it be known that telling a woman to relax has never once resulted in said relaxation.

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s hot when he talks about data. I want to ask him to pull up an Excel sheet, maybe sort by ascending value.

“Why are we slow-dancing?” Luka rests his chin on top of my head. “This is how my parents argued,” he confesses quietly, a grin in his voice. “Or I guess, this is how they had big conversations. My dad said he liked to keep my mom close, but I really think he wanted a way to politely restrain her.”

“Leaning on other people doesn’t make your achievements any less yours.”

“I know you can take care of yourself. You’ve been doing that as long as I’ve known you. But let me hold your hand while you do it, okay?”

If kissing him in the snow was magic, then this is—this is sugarplum fairies and toffee brittle crunch on top of dark chocolate cupcakes.

Do you even realize the way you look at each other?”

I’m going to love her in all the quiet ways, the slow ways, the loud and obnoxious ways.

“Seriously though, what’s with the look?” “Just thinking,” I tell her. I drop my head back to the floor. “Just happy.”