“You’re always up to something,” she murmured. That mistletoe had nothing to do with me, but I’d let her believe it. “And you’re always just out of my reach.” She darted her eyes away. Self-conscious, embarrassed, nervous—who cared. I wanted her to look at me again, and I didn’t want to wait. “Ophelia.” The second her chin lifted I leaned down and cut whatever string of words she was about to say in half with a sweet press of my lips to hers. It blindsided her. Our eyes were slow to shut, but when they did, the rest of her opened up. It was like the warm buzz of a first sip of whiskey, the
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