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I’m aware of her eyes on me as I knot the scarf under her chin, methodic and slow. Wanting a reason to be this close, knowing I probably don’t need a reason at all.

“I don’t know your favorite color,” I say, still avoiding her gaze. I am typically a quiet guy. Quiet—but not shy like I feel now. “This one had a lot of colors. Bright, happy, fun. They made me think of you.”

“Camden,” she whispers.

Finally, my hands still grasping the fringed edges of the scarf like they’re all that’s keeping me on my feet, I meet her gaze.

“Thank you,” she says. “This is really, really nice.”

“It wasn’t expensive.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to point this out. I immediately backpedal. “I could have gotten a nicer one. I just liked these colors.”

“I don’t need an expensive scarf, Camden. You thinking of me, saying colors remind you of me, it’s?—”

She presses her lips together, and for a moment, I have the sickening suspicion I’m about to make her cry. But resolve takes over her features and she reaches up, grabbing my hands with hers.

“I love it. Thank you.” She pauses. “And my favorite color is turquoise. More on the blue side than green.”

I nod, like I know what the hell that means. I intend to learn it. Later.

Because right now, I need to kiss her.

So, I do, leaning forward and brushing my lips over hers, even though I told myself before this date I wouldn’t.

Naomi makes a tiny sound, a hum that sounds like pure contentment, and then she wraps her arms around me, tugging me closer, like the inches between us were just too far. My heartbeat riots in my chest as her mouth moves against mine with an intensity clearly assuring me that I wasn’t the only one who replayed last night’s kiss in my head.

Or maybe all of our past kisses for all the months we’ve been apart.

This wasn’t how I intended to do things. Not kissing her last night in the hallway or right here on the sidewalk when we still haven’t talked about how we feel or what we want. I planned to do things right this time with her. No pretending like I think we both did last summer—saying it was casual while something much deeper was growing underneath.

Now that the door has been opened, though, I can’t go back to not kissing her. Not feeling the way her lips move under mine, somehow both pliant and firm, an agreeable fighter. As if to illustrate this very thing, she pulls back just slightly and nips at my bottom lip.

I chuckle, the sound low and sandpaper rough. “I wasn’t going to kiss you again. Not when we haven’t talked about this, about us.”

Naomi’s lips graze the corner of my mouth. “Well, that just seems cruel and unusual. I vote we keep kissing on the table.” A pause. A kiss. “Kissing on the table sounds fun.”

I groan, remembering late nights of leaving Naomi at the doorstep of the little cottage on Oakley, returning to my hotel feeling kiss-drugged and effervescent.

She’s been teasing me with her light kisses, and I turn the tables now, letting go of her scarf to cup her cheeks, tilting her mouth up to mine. I don’t get very far though because the door to the bistro suddenly opens behind us, reminding me there is a bistro at all—and we’re making out right in front of the door.

Curling an arm around Naomi’s shoulders, I move us away from the door, putting our backs to the people who just came outside. Honestly, the interruption is for the best.

Being a hockey player isn’t like being an A-list celebrity or even a famous football or basketball player. There won’t be paparazzi hiding in bushes or using telephoto lenses to see into our windows or yards. But the Appies are all over social media, and we’re an institution here in Harvest Hollow. It wouldn’t be unheard of for some random person to snap a photo or a video and post it online somewhere.

I really haven’t had to worry about this, but I’ve had a very boring life off the ice. Somehow, I have a feeling kissing a woman on a sidewalk in the middle of the day might invite more attention than I want.

“I have to get back to work,” Naomi says with a sigh that brushes across my cheek, warmth mixing with the cold of the snowflakes that are falling harder now.

“I want to take things slow,” I say, tracing the line of her jaw with a fingertip, “but this isn’t quite what I had in mind. We spent half of our time with Mike telling terrible stories about me, and the rest talking about him.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad he came, and I’m glad you told me. It’s really amazing what you’re doing for him.”

I want to argue that anyone would, but I also know that’s not true. In some ways, being abandoned by my family made me the exact kind of person who couldn’t leave Mike in a home somewhere. I won’t leave him.

“You have a Mike, and I have a Liam.” She shrugs. “If we’re going to have an actual relationship, we have to figure out what that means.”

She’s right, but I still regret not taking her on a proper date alone. Or is that just the part of me that’s still drawn to her mouth like it’s a task I’ve started and now need to finish.

“I have to tell you something maybe I should have told you before.”