Does thoroughly mortified count as okay? Let’s say: “Yeah.”
“Good. This is what we’re going to do: I’ll slide in the ladder through the gates, and you’ll use it to get on top of the wall. I’ll be on the other side to catch you.”
I frown. He sounds very . . . in charge. Self-assured. Not that he usually doesn’t, but it’s having a new . . . effect on me. Oh my God. Am I a damsel in distress?
“How will we retrieve the ladder?”
“I’ll drive by tomorrow morning and pick it up.”
“What if someone steals it?”
“I’ll have lost a precious heirloom passed down my family for generations.”
“Really?”
“No. Ready?”
I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. He lifts the ladder like it’s a feather and slides it through the gate. It feels a little less-than-cool when I find that it’s so heavy, I can barely hold it upright. I tell myself that I have other talents as he has to patiently guide me through the process of releasing the catches and setting the safety mechanism. He must notice how annoying I find being coached, because he says, “At least you know about the angular gyrus.”
I turn to hiss at him, but stop when I see his expression. Is he teasing me again? For the second time? In a day?
Whatever. I climb up, which proves to be a nice distraction. Because you know how I mentioned that my body likes to faint? Well. Heights make it like to faint even more. I’m halfway to the top, and my head starts spinning. I clutch the sidebars and take a deep breath. I can do this. I can maintain normal blood pressure without passing out. I’m not even that high up. Here, if I look down I can—
“Don’t,” Levi orders.
I turn to him. I’m a few inches taller, and he looks even more handsome from this angle. God, I hate him. And myself. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look down. It’ll be worse.”
How does he even know that—
“Look up. Take one step after the other, slowly. Yes, good.” I don’t know if his advice works, or if my blood pressure naturally spikes when I’m told what to do, but I make it to the top without crumpling like a sack of potatoes. At which point I realize that the worst is yet ahead. “Just lower yourself from the edge,” Levi says. He’s standing right below me, arms raised to catch me, his head a few inches from my dangling feet.
“Jesus.” Forget fainting. I’m about to barf. “What if you don’t catch me? What if I’m too heavy? What if we both fall? What if I break your neck?”
“I will, you’re obviously not, we won’t, and you won’t. Come on, Bee,” he says patiently. “Just close your eyes.”
See? This is what you get yourself into when you work out. Stay in the safe harbor of your couch, kids.
“You ready?” he asks encouragingly. Trust falls. With Levi Wardass. God, when did this become my life? Dr. Curie, please watch out for me.
I let myself go. For a second I’m suspended in air, sure that I’ll splatter Humpty-Dumpty style. Then strong fingers close around my waist, and I’m in Levi’s arms for the second time in ten days. I must have pushed from the wall a little too forcefully, because we end up closer than I intended. My front rubs against him as he lowers me to the ground, and I feel everything. Everything. The hard muscles of his shoulders under my hands. The heat of his flesh through the shirt. The way his belt bites into my abdomen. The dangerous tingling in my lower belly as he— What? No.
I step back. This is Levi Ward. A married man. A father. A camel dick. What am I even thinking?
“Are you okay?”
I nod, flustered. “Thank you for getting here so quickly.”
He looks away. He may be flushing. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m so sorry to disrupt your evening. I tried to call Rocío, but she was . . . I’m not sure where.”
“I’m glad you called me.”
Is he? I seriously doubt it. “Anyway, thank you so much. How can I return the favor? Can I pay for gas?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh, there’s no need. I’m just five minutes away.”
“It’s pitch black and there are no sidewalks.” He holds the passenger door open, and I have no choice but to get in. Whatever. I can survive one more minute in close proximity with him.
The inside of his truck is pristine and smells good—not something I believed possible—with a handful of L?rabars in the back that make my stomach cramp with hunger, and a half-full CamelBak that I’d risk his germs for. He also drives a stick shift. Hmph. Show-off.