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“Define good,” I mutter. “My romantic moment got bulldozed by the cast ofJackass on Ice.”

She laughs, and damn, it’s worth it. Her smile warms me more than the fire pit we pass. “They’re not that bad.”

“They arethat bad, Jo. They’remybad. My genetics are in question every time Bennett opens his mouth.”

We reach the tiny concession shack and order two hot cocoas—real ones, no Shep-style flask assist. Joely’s sipping hers when I lean against the wall and nudge her with my shoulder.

“So,” I say, “about that kiss…”

Her brow lifts. “What about it?”

“It was good.”

She smirks. “Just good?”

I take a slow drink of cocoa, letting the sugar melt the embarrassment from my tongue. “Fine. It was great. Epic, even.”

“Better,” she says, and bumps my hip with hers.

I glance toward the hill. Shep’s lying in the snow making what I think is a snow angel but looks more like he lost a wrestling match with gravity. Bennett’s carrying two sleds, yelling at a kid to stop crying because, “Bruises build character.” Heath is inexplicably eating a corndog. Where the hell he got a corndog, I have no idea.

“I just wanted one night, you know?” I say quietly. “Just one moment that was about you and me.”

Joely steps in closer, her coat brushing mine. “It still is. We just have to share it… with the dysfunctional Slammer circus.”

I wrap an arm around her shoulders and lean in. “Thanks for putting up with all this.”

She rests her head against me. “Brogan, I was born and raised in this chaos. I don’tput upwith it. I thrive in it.”

A little voice cuts through our cozy moment.

“Hey, Coach Foster!”

I turn. It’s the same kid from earlier, dragging a friend behind him.

“You guys gonna kiss again?” he asks.

Joely freezes against me. I stare down at the kid like he just asked me to solve quantum physics.

The friend pipes up. “We saw you smoochin’ on the hill. We voted. It wasgross, but she’s pretty, so it’s okay.”

Joely chokes on her cocoa. I clear my throat.

“We’ll, uh… keep that in mind,” I manage.

The kids run off giggling, and Joely’s cheeks are redder than her mittens.

I lean closer. “Well, at least the reviews are in.”

“And?”

“Mixed,” I deadpan. “But promising.”

We head back to the hill, cocoa in hand, just in time to see Shep holding a sled triumphantly above his head like he’s just won gold in Olympic Douchebaggery.

“Who’s ready for round two?” he shouts.

“Put the sled down before you pull a muscle,” I yell back.