We freeze.
It’s that night outside my apartment all over again, his mouth so close to mine, right before we kissed like I’ve never kissed.
Christopher’s hand slides up my neck, his thumb gliding over my jaw. His eyes dart to my mouth as he lets out a long, shaky exhale that presses his chest to my back.
Wrapping my hand around his wrist, I feel his pulse pound, a thrill coursing through me as I touch evidence of what I’ve hoped: he wants me just as much as I want him.
But now’s not the time for that, for weak knees and hazy longing and aching to kiss. No distractions, nothing that jeopardizes kicking these jerks’ butts.
Forcing myself to exhale slowly, steadily, I meet his eyes and whisper, “I’ll run across the clearing. Draw their attention. I call taking down Mr. Misogynist. I’ll aim for him first. You take out his henchman while they’re focused on me.”
Christopher’s gaze snaps up from my mouth. He shakes his head quickly and whispers, “No. You’ll stay right here. I’ll go.”
A twig snaps. We both go quiet and glance toward its sound. The jerks from the other team are poking around the catapult, which they can’t seem to figure out how to maneuver. I wonder if Jamie somehow found a way to compromise it. I hope so. Because now’s my moment.
I try to turn in Christopher’s arms, and he loosens his grip so I’m able to. His touch softens, his hands settle on my shoulders, as I spin and face him.
Reaching up on tiptoe, I press a kiss just below his ear, then whisper, “Go for the jugular.”
Christopher pulls back, eyes narrowed. “Katerina, what—shit!”
I lurch out of his reach and spin, bending to scoop up two paintballs. Adjusting them in my grip like the good old softball days, I rush out into the clearing, sprinting across it and letting out a shrill whoop that makes the bros in black startle and fumble in their bags for their paintballs.
The first ball snaps from my hand and smacks Chad the ringleader right in the—irony of glorious ironies—balls. On a pained groan, he drops to his knees and falls sideways.
The last man on their team stares at me with pure rage, winding up and whipping a ball at me. I dodge it as I sprint farther across the clearing, so he’ll turn as he tracks me and not be able to see Christopher coming up on him.
“Sucker!” I yell, hopping a rock in my path. My ankle wobbles, and I stumble forward, but I wrench myself upright back into a sprint.
He’s tracking me, winding up again as I run, before he snaps a ball that I try to dodge but which nails me on my chest, right over my heart. I groan and throw my head back in frustration. When a ball strikes me again, my groan morphs to a shocked gasp, though I shouldn’t be surprised. The rules say you stop when your opponent’s hit, but of course he’s thrown another ball, aiming for my face.
The jerk reaches into his satchel and grips a new ball as he growls, prowling toward me, winding up, “You fucking cu—”
A paintball splats right into his windpipe, making him go wide-eyed and gape like a fish as he stumbles back, the ball falling from his hand.
Slowly, I turn my head.
Christopher stands at the edge of the trees, and our gazes lock. The world dims around me, a peripheral blur of the bros in black stalking off, until all I see is Christopher. Jaw tight, chest heaving, standing with me in a little forest of bare paint-splattered branches and dwindling leaves, the last slice of ripe persimmon sun dissolving on the horizon.
As I stare at him, the surge that’s built inside me, flipping breaker after breaker, shutting down reason after reason for why I should pull back from this longing that’s unfurled inside me and protect myself like I always have, for why I shouldn’t crush my mouth to that high-handed, infuriating, sweet-talking, shamelessly flirtatious, hot-as-hell-in-skintight-green-coveralls pain in my ass, blows my resolve into a shower of white-hot sparks that rocket through my limbs, urging me to move.
I take one step toward him.
And then another.
And then I run.
? TWENTY-FOUR ?
Christopher
I watch Kate run toward me, her feet pounding into the dirt as fast as my heart pounds in my chest. For so long, I’ve denied myself this—the pleasure of watching her, the thrill of admiring her, the ache of longing for her.
But not anymore.
Surrendered, free from the last of my resistance, I drink her in as she barrels toward me, beautiful and wild, splattered in paint, ribbons of chestnut hair flying out of their messy knot in the whipping wind.
I take a step toward her. Then another. Long, fast, then faster strides eating up the earth, and fuck, my heart, it feels like for the first time it’s stretched its arms, drawn in starved-for air, and roared out joy.