These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

“What are you doing out here,” he asks with clenched teeth, “in the snow?”

Oh right. The snow.

It’s snowing this morning.

Little drops of white sugar falling on the ground, but it’s nothing to worry about.

I look up at the gently falling snow. “Oh, the snow doesn’t bother me. It’s super light anyway. It’s kinda pretty, don’t you think?”

His jaw moves again, along with his chest. Probably with a sharp breath. “No. I think it’s cold. The snow. And so you should go back inside.”

I stare at his tightened up but beautiful features. “I’m not cold. I’m fine. Really.”

I’m telling the truth.

This winter has been super mild so far. Except for one heavy snowfall back in mid-November, we’ve had no snow days or even chilly days whatsoever. And I should know because I’m out here every morning in just a sweater and sit on the ground that’s barely chilly.

“Besides, I draw here every day,” I continue. “It’s my routine. And I read in a book once that discipline is very important if you want to be successful at something. Especially if you want to be successful as an artist. It’s a unique passion, see. It’s super self-driven, so I need to stick to a schedule.” And also watch you. “But I don’t have to tell you that, right? I mean, you’re here every day too. Right on time.” Then, without even taking a breath, I ask, “Do you know you do that a lot?”

“Do what?” he clips again.

“Stare people down like that.” I tip my chin up at him. “Like you want to crush them under your boots. Like they’re a bug or something.” I point to his watch then. “Your watch does that too.”

He continues to stare at me like I’ve just described, before sighing. Sharply. “Go back to the dorm.”

“But I just said —”

“Just go to your room. Now.”

“But you’re out here too. In the snow.”

“We’re not talking about me right now.”

And I really can’t help it then.

A burst of laughter escapes me and he frowns. “Again. Is that supposed to be funny?”

I get my mirth under control as I reply, “Don’t kill me, but for a second there, you sounded just like my dad. ‘Go to your room. We’re not talking about me right now.’” I chuckle despite his ire. “Like, how old are you?”

His eyes sweep over my face for a beat.

I do think they lingered on my smiling lips for a second but I may be imagining it. I may be imagining that dark glitter in them, the intense look.

I may be licking my lips too, just because I want him to keep looking.

He doesn’t though.

He flicks his eyes up when he’s done studying me, murmuring, “Your dad.”

I lick my lips once again. “Yes.”

“Whose car you drew graffiti on.”

My heart races at his lowered tone. “I did.”

Those eyes of his that I thought were on my lips darken even more. His jaw clenches as well. But only for a second or two. Then he sighs — not as sharply as before but still — and shifts on his feet.

Followed by doing something else. Something spectacular.

Incredible.

He goes up to the zip of his hoodie and yanks it lower. Then he grabs the front of it and opens it wider, rolling his shoulders and taking it off.

Leaving himself in only a t-shirt, light gray and fitted.

“Here,” he offers it to me.

My eyes are wide. “What? I don’t —”

“I don’t need it for running.”

“But I can’t —”

“If you insist on sitting out here in the snow, then at least bundle up for it.” He looks at his black hoodie. “It’s not a lot but layers should be better than your…” He thinks about it, “Little sweater.”

My lips tremble and my thighs prick with the imaginary thorns I’ve decorated his name with.

“I don’t know,” I swallow, “what to say.”

I really don’t.

Like that night when he stopped to check on me by the side of the road, he’s offering me warmth now.

Something no one had ever done before him.

“Just take it before you die from the cold,” he says. Then, “And deprive me of the chance to crush you under my boots like a bug myself.”

I smile.

It’s impossible not to. At this grumpiness. At the way he plays the reluctant hero.

My reluctant hero.

I also take his hoodie, which makes him take a step back, probably ready to leave. “A flower.”

He halts in his tracks then. “What?”

“I’m a flower.” I hug his hoodie, so soft and cozy but most of all warm. “Not a bug. A wallflower.”

“What’s a wallflower?”

“A type of flower that grows on walls and loves it,” I explain, rubbing my chin in the cozy fabric as his eyes focus on my actions. “I’m a wallflower. And you’re a thorn.” He looks back up, his eyes dark and slightly narrowed. “Get it? Because your last name is Thorne.”