Authors: Winter Renshaw
I fling myself up from the bed and pad across the carpet, heading toward the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” he calls as I pass him. We nearly brush shoulders.
“I’m going to soak in that tub for the next hour,” I say, “and when this year is finally over, I’ll emerge, smelling like roses, literally, and I’ll sleep like a baby.”
“So that’s it?” He turns to face me as I linger in the bathroom doorway. “You’re just going to call it a night? Ring in the new year alone?”
Shrugging, I nod. “Yep.”
“Surely we can salvage this.”
Lifting a brow and pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Doubtful. I pretty much just want to forget tonight ever happened.”
Stepping inside the bathroom, I grip the edge of the door and prepare to close it, which feels strongly like a metaphor for this moment.
For this past year, really.
“Wait,” he calls before I get the chance.
But I don’t.
My mood is ruined.
This
night
is ruined.
I just want to drown myself in a million bubbles and a soapy broth of self-pity. Maybe do some reflecting on this last year or so and all the wrong turns I’ve taken. When I’m through with my introspections, I’ll wash them circle the drain and emerge a brand new woman.
Hopefully.
Locking the door behind me, I bid so long to this past year and run myself the hottest bath I can stand.
***
Wrapped in a fluffy robe, my skin red and steamed, I run my palm along the fogged up bathroom mirror and give myself a good, hard look.
I’m not sure what time it is or if the people several floors below have already finished their midnight countdown, but I figure it might not be too late to make a new year’s resolution.
I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I’m sick of getting my hopes up. I’m tired of having my heart broken.
But I can’t think of a single resolution that would prevent any of those things from happening.
Drawing in a long, slow breath, I try and focus on the positives . . . the things I can control . . . the things I want out of life.
And then it hits me.
Completely out of nowhere.
The thought feels wildly surprising yet completely organic.
I know what my resolution is going to be . . .
This year, I want to experience more priceless moments. The kind money can’t buy. The kind I can’t assign a dollar amount to or order on the internet with the click of a button.
This year, I want to revel in those immeasurably valuable moments that could never be worthy of a price tag.
I want adventure.
I want to make memories.
I want experiences.
I want to be so busy living that I forget about everything else.
Feeling resolute, I scrap my spirit off the floor and pull in a cleansing breath. I force myself to smile in the mirror, which feels awkward but somehow lifts my mood just enough that I think I can emerge from the bathroom and not bite Cristiano’s head off when he opens that smart mouth of his.
Cinching my robe belt, I reach for the doorknob and yank the door, finding myself face to face with my temporary roommate.
My heart leaps, startled, climbing in my chest and pounding like it wants out. The way he looks at me sucks all the air from my lungs, and before I have a chance to fully comprehend what’s happening, his hands are circling my waist and his mouth is moving to mine. Each step he takes moves us, in tandem, until my back is pressed against the bathroom door and there’s no where else to go.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight,” he says, his voice like a whisper only meant for me.
“Cristiano.”
His right hand cups the underside of my jaw, angling my mouth upward.
“Seven . . . six . . .” he continues.
“What are you doing?”
“Five . . . four . . . three,” he sighs, his mouth coming closer. His lips brush against mine, and I inhale a hint of mint and Scotch on his breath. “Two . . . one.”
His mouth comes down on mine, his fingers lacing through the damp hair at the nape of my neck. He doesn’t slip me the tongue. He doesn’t make this dirty or raw or animal. He doesn’t kiss me in a way that makes me feel threatened or unsafe. For all intents and purposes, considering what this is, he’s a perfect gentleman.
My eyes close and my thoughts are muted.
I want to touch him.
I want to reach for him.
But I’m not sure if that would be appropriate. I have no idea why he’s kissing me or what his intentions are, and I’m not sure why I’m standing here letting him do this, my body all but offering itself up to him on a quaking, quivering silver platter.
But we’re kissing.
He’s kissing me.
And it feels so good to be kissed that I could cry.
I could weep like a baby.
Nobody’s ever kissed me this way; so gentle, so sweet. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m breakable. Like I’m precious.
All my life, I’ve known how people see me.
They see this spitfire personality with opinions blasting from her lips every five seconds. They see someone who regularly jet sets across the globe like she’s some kind of fearless. They see someone who’s had her heart smashed dozens of times and has the audacity to try, again and again, foolishly, to fall in love.
But what they don’t see is how truly delicate my heart is. They don’t see how heavy it is when I think about how much love it has to give. They don’t see how fast it beats when I lock eyes with a man who could potentially hold my entire future in the palm of his hand.
I want to love.
And I want to be loved.
And I want someone who kisses me like this, so soft and slow it makes me forget how to breathe.
He pulls his mouth from mine a moment later, our eyes meeting in a veil of lust-struck confusion, at least on my end.
His lips, subtly pink from kissing me, pull up at the sides just enough. “Happy fucking New Year.”
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#1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.
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