He laughs and the bright sound chases away my melancholy. “You do what you gotta do. Just . . . just come, okay?”

I’ve never gone snowmobiling before. It feels like flying! I hang on tight to Linden and squeal when he hits a snowdrift that launches us a few feet in the air only to land softly in a mound of powder, and then we’re gliding again.

I’m dressed in a full-body snowsuit that Linden grew out of ages ago. And I’m grateful for the warmth as the frigid air whistles past us. We last for a full two hours of crisscrossing acres upon acres of perfect, untouched powder and by the time we pull back into his parents’ six-car garage, I’m bursting with delight and excitement even though my cheeks are so cold I can’t feel them.

“That was awesome,” I say when Linden unfastens my helmet for me and I pull it off, the world stunningly bright without the visor in front of my eyes.

“It’s a good machine,” Linden says, looking down at the shiny snowmobile and then running a hand along the side of it.

Getting out of our snowsuits is almost as funny as when we got into them—with Linden again having to assist me with half of my fastenings.

“I feel like I’m four,” I say, giggling. “I need so much help.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Linden says so casually it makes my heart skip a beat. His simple, easy assumption that we’ll do this again. Soon, and often enough that I’ll grow accustomed to the silly snowsuit.

“You look cold,” Linden says, and lifts his hand to push a damp strand of hair off my face. He meets my eyes and his hand freezes. For a moment, I think he might kiss me again. A real kiss, not a deal-sealing kiss. But after a few seconds of tension he smiles, drops his hand, and inclines his head. “Let’s go inside.”

We stop in the kitchen and Linden pushes a button on a very high-tech-looking shiny thing and a few minutes later, we’re both holding steamy cups of frothy cappuccino. “This is so cool,” I say, my hands warming around my mug. “It’s like Starbucks in your house.”

He leads me into a rec room where a huge TV stretches across one wall and a sectional big enough to seat at least ten people lines the wall. Linden drops onto the built-in chaise and pats the space beside him.

Not the seat beside him, but the space on the same cushion right beside him.

With a quick you can do it inner pep talk, I carefully lower myself down next to him so I don’t spill my drink. Our thighs touch and our shoulders rub as I tentatively put my feet up on the chaise close to his.

As I sip my foamy coffee, I subtly take in the space around me. The décor is fairly sparse and almost entirely black and white. Multicolored pillows line the couch, deep jewel tones that are the only bright spots in the entire room. It’s so elegant and beautiful.

But it does make me worry about getting coffee on anything.

I’m not sure I’d like living in such formality. I study Linden’s profile and wonder if he finds it stifling.

Before he catches me staring, I turn away and as I do my gaze finds a long, wide mirror mounted above the couch on the adjacent wall. I gasp and put a hand to my hair. Helmet hair is the least of what I have. It’s like helmet and bed and teased hair all rolled into one almost-beehived mess.

Linden looks up at my sound of dismay. When he realizes why I’m upset, he snickers.

“You knew!” I accuse, pointing a finger at him.

“Aw, come on. It’s cute,” Linden says.

I set my coffee down on the end table and jump up to try and bring some sort of order to the mess on top of my head. Something smacks me in the back and I turn to see one of the pillows on the ground. I grab the pillow nearest to me and lob it at him. He puts his hands up to block what would have been a perfect shot to the face, then launches it at me again, following it immediately with another one.

I shriek and we both laugh and toss pillows until all of the formerly perfectly situated decorations are on the ground. Linden grabs me around the waist and flops back onto the couch, pulling me against him.

He runs his fingers over my messy hair, fixing some of the strands. “You look adorable like this.” And then, with almost no warning, his lips are on mine and he’s pulling my hips tight against his and I can barely breathe.

This one is a real kiss. It’s warm and soft and purposeful in a way the sort-of kiss yesterday wasn’t. One hand runs down the side of my ribs, down my hips, my thighs, then he hooks his fingers under my knee and pulls my leg up and across him, our bodies so close that he warms me even better than the creamy cappuccino.

After a long, soft, lingering kiss, he pulls away and leans his head on one elbow to look me in the face—though he keeps ahold of my leg so our hips are pressed deliciously close.

“Why didn’t I notice you before?” he whispers, and runs one finger down my cheek. I pause at the funny sense of déjà vu his words provoke. Is it because I’ve imagined this conversation happening about a thousand times? Or did I actually dream about a scene just like this?

I smile up at him as he lowers his face to mine again. It all feels so exhilarating and surreal and I don’t know what to do. Honestly, it feels a little fast. But not for me, for him. I’ve been dreaming about this for years. Maybe Linden just moves kind of quickly.

I can’t say that I mind.

His fingertips find bare skin on my back, between my waistline and shirt. He hesitates, as though he’s unsure what to do. Then his fingers slide across my spine and pull me even tighter against him.