It's a long week of classes. It usually drags on at this time of year: the semester will end soon, everyone is eager to have a break for the holidays, and it is unquestionably the coldest first-week-of-December we've had in a long time.

I have a full load of classes this semester, sixteen credits packed into Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I purposely left Fridays open because I knew I would need extra time and energy to work the trolley's ten runs each weekend. It may not seem like a lot, but between keeping warm and smiling for four hours straight each night, I'm usually pretty tired out by the end of the weekend.

On Monday, I run at the high school track again, but on Wednesday, I decide to brave the cold outside. I cover my face and body as best I can, and I think ahead to where I've seen the least ice on the roads. I decide on a straight route through town, where most businesses will have salted their sidewalks.

I think about Harry. How can I miss this guy so much when I didn't even know him at this time two weeks ago? My mind, and my heart, have already begun to toy with the idea that Harry might be the one. Maybe that's why he seems so familiar to me. Maybe he was made for me. I try as hard as I can to control that line of thinking because I don't want to get ahead of myself. But there is just something about him that makes me think he's different.

As I round the corner to the main street of town, I notice that many people are bundled up, going from store to store, doing their Christmas shopping. I pass a small group of people and I think I hear them speaking with Scottish accents. I wonder if they came all the way from Scotland just to visit Eagle Canyon. Probably not, but it's fun to hear their elegant accents gracing our humble little main street. But I like Harry's accent the most.

Another block ahead, I notice a familiar figure with crutches. I slow to a jog, and then to a walk so that I'm not completely out of breath when I reach him.

"Hey, Harry," I greet him casually, although my heart is racing. And it's not just from running.

"Hi, Kate. You're a runner?" He asks, with more than a hint of surprise in his voice.

I'm a little surprised at the confounded look on his face.

"Yeah,"I pant, still trying to catch my breath. "I don't usually run outside when it's this cold," I tell him. "But I can only take so much of the indoor track. It's too monotonous."

I want to stay and talk all afternoon. All evening. All night. But I know I should continue with my run, or I will lose my momentum.

"Well, I have to keep moving," I tell him. "But hopefully I'll see you soon." In other words, call me!

"'Bye, Kate," he takes off his glove and brushes his warm hand on my cheek before I race off again. I feel him staring at me as I resume my run.

~*~*~

On Thursday after my last class, I bundle up for the walk to my truck. I could practically park at home and walk to the tiny campus, but the parking lot is just a bit closer. Besides, sometimes I stop off at the little gift shops after class to piece together my Christmas shopping, or I pick Fiona up from school. I am thankful for the remote start my dad had recently put on the truck for me.

I click the button and I'm startled by a familiar voice behind me. "Can you give me another ride?" I smile and turn to find that Harry has already grabbed his right crutch with his left hand to move it out of the way, and he pulls me into a firm hug with his right arm. In that wonderfully warm moment, he leaves another kiss on my cheek.

"Wow, you're becoming a stalker!" I laugh. My face remains close to his; he stops for a moment and looks at me as if he contemplates giving me a real kiss.

Then he smiles and turns toward the truck. "It's not getting any warmer out here," he yells as he leaves me frozen to the spot with his warm kiss still tingling on my skin.

I have only kissed two guys in my life. One was when I was in ninth grade. I had known the guy – well, "boy" is a more accurate word – forever, and we spent our freshman year "going out." Meaning, we spent the year holding hands at school, sitting together at basketball games, and occasionally meeting up with friends at the movie theater. There were never any real "dates" since we were only 14. We kissed a few times at the movies. It was nothing serious.

My other kiss – the only kiss I shared with the creep – was with a guy who spent his summer here in Eagle Canyon. He was from Montreal, Canada and he spoke French. I flirted with him shamelessly every chance I got, which was every single day. He came to the pool where I worked as a lifeguard during the summer months. He came to swim laps in the Olympic-sized pool, and he stayed to let me flirt with him. It was easy with his French accent and his killer Olympic-sized-swimming-pool toned body. But the first time he got me alone about half way through the summer, he tried kissing me with his tongue and with his hands all over my body. It was kind of disgusting, actually, and I ended up telling him he was jerk. After that, we had no trouble ignoring each other at the pool. Even so, I was relieved when he finally left to go back to Montreal.

I find that now, I have a desire to kiss Harry in a whole new way. Not as some sappy high school girl. I want to kiss Harry as a grownup. Like I mean it.

But what can I possibly mean after such a short time?

I hop into the already-warming truck and ask, "So, do you really want a ride home, or would you like to come over to my house for a bit?"

"Your house sounds great," he grins.

"I should have known you had an ulterior motive," I tell him smugly. "How did you get to town?"

"My sister dropped me off. I wanted to do a little shopping. I'll text her and tell her I don't need a ride back."

I'm mildly shocked when my mom invites Harry to stay for dinner, considering her repeated hints that I'm not ready to pursue a relationship with him.

It's one of the few nights she doesn't have to work, and she loves to cook. She makes a scrumptious chicken pot pie and we all eat way too much. As always, she scoops out the last bit to save it for Dad since he's working again tonight; otherwise Marcus would pile-drive the stuff no matter how much he'd already eaten. Fiona has arrived just in time to salvage a small portion for herself as well.

The boys volunteer to clean up, meaning Harry volunteers and Mom forces Marcus to help him.

Mom, Fiona and I head to the den. Mom puts on a soothing Christmas CD. I don't normally find Christmas music soothing. I'm subjected to every possible rendition of every single Christmas song, sung by every single celebrity, during the entire month of December. But this particular CD contains very calm, relaxing piano renditions of Christmas favorites, with no obnoxious singing.

We sit and relax a bit before Mom asks quietly, "So, have you asked Harry about his... condition ...yet?"

I feel a little irritated at her choice of words. It sounds like she thinks he has some contagious illness. I give my mom the No, why would I? look, and she continues. "It would be helpful to know what you're facing if you two are becoming serious. If it was an accident, then you know it won't get any worse. But if he has some kind of disease...." She stops and seems to re-think her choice of words. "Or if it's a genetic condition, it could be degenerative. I think you would want to know if it's going to get worse. That can affect a lot in a relationship. And it might be something he could pass along to his children."

My emotions fluctuate between irritation and fear as I try to figure out how to address my mom's question. Leave it to her to find another angle from which to pitch her you're-not-ready-to-get-serious campaign.

Finally I just say, "Mom, stop worrying so much. We're not serious."

Yet, I add in my mind.

Marcus enters the room, catching my last sentence. "Yeah, she's just going out with him because she feels sorry for him."

My mom gives him a stern, "Marcus!" as if that's the only thing she has to say to address the idiocy of his statement. Sometimes I wish she would duct tape his mouth shut.

"Shut up, you freak!" I tell him fiercely, but quietly enough so Harry won't hear.

A moment later, Harry finds his way into the den. "I should be getting home," he tells me, and then abruptly heads for his coat.

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