by Avery Flynn
Zara tapped on her wrist, her mouth curled in a good-natured, teasing smile. “Clock’s ticking, Caleb.”
Wiping his palms on the side of his shorts, he started across.
The rope wobbled. His breath caught. He went down, the safety line and net breaking his fall so he bounced, his arms and legs flailing in the air.
As he lay on his back in the middle of the net, he heard Zara yell out, “Don’t give up.”
Gritting his teeth, he stood and scaled the ladder to the platform. This time he got a running start and tried to sprint his way across. He made it halfway before his shoulders lurched left, the rope went right, and he went down. As he made his way back up the ladder, he could feel Zara’s gaze on him, watching and no doubt marking down his every mistake. When he got to the platform and looked across the wire, though, she wasn’t giving him that judgmental glare he was expected.
She stood on the opposite platform, one foot in front of the other with her arms straight out. “Keep your arms out like this and your eyes on me. You’ve got this.”
“Highly coachable” had never been one of the descriptors the scouts had given for him—no doubt Freud would say that had something to do with his mom’s job. Still, he followed Zara’s instructions.
“Make sure to center your weight,” she said. “One foot in front of the other. That’s it. You’re doing great.”
She was practically chanting those words over and over again by the time he made it across. Adrenaline pumping, he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her up to him in celebration. He hadn’t planned on doing that, but once they were face-to-face, her pink mouth only inches from his, the whole thing felt natural—as if he should have done that eons ago. Her hands went to his shoulders, and her lips parted on a soft “oh” that sounded more like a moment of awareness than of surprise.
She didn’t fit perfectly against him—with more than a foot height difference, that would never happen—but she still felt right in his arms. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, and she lowered her face just enough to let him know that if he didn’t stop this now, she was going to kiss him. That was good. That was really damn—bad.
What the hell, Stuckey. Your date is off-limits, remember, asshole? There are rules. You have a goal. Using Zara to get off is not an option. She doesn’t even want to be here with you.
Reality driven home, he came back to his senses. He didn’t throw Zara down, but he didn’t set her gently on her feet, either. Embarrassment chased the confusion right off her face as a deep blush worked its way up from the base of her throat.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have picked you up,” he said, shoving a hand through his hair to keep from reaching out for her again. “I got carried away.”
She looked everywhere but at him. “Yeah, no worries. We should just—” And then she sprinted off the platform and onto the padded, spinning bars, making it to the third out of five before she went flying.
…
What had she been thinking? Kissing Caleb Stuckey? No, that was bad. Really bad. Almost as bad as face planting on the trampoline-like net under the spinning bars of hell.
The idea of laying here looking like she had permanently biffed it sounded pretty good at the moment, but Zara couldn’t do it. She had to get up, conquer this obstacle course, and mark date number two off her to-do list before she embarrassed herself any further.
“Are you okay?” Caleb asked.
She rolled over onto her back. He was on the platform, staring down at her. His dark hair was tousled, and the Ice Knights T-shirt he wore showed off his broad shoulders and biceps to perfection.
“I’m good.” Good at being an idiot who’d wanted to kiss her very-much-non-date.
Worse. She hadn’t just wanted to kiss him. She’d wanted to help him clear his cobwebs. It had been easy to blow off how hot he was when she thought he was another oversexed pro athlete. But fifteen women? His entire life? Sure, for some people that would be a big number, but she figured he’d be in triple digits. The fact that his number was closer to hers than an average pop star’s had her discombobulated to the point that she didn’t even think before she’d rushed across the tight rope. And then when he’d lifted her up and he smelled so good and her entire body was tuned in to his and everything was just so—
“Do you need help getting off?” Caleb asked.
Help getting off? Oh, if only that was possible in the no-orgasms-with-others zone. She shook her head. She couldn’t have heard him right. “Excuse me?”
“Do you need help getting back up here?” he asked, this time making his voice loud enough that the people just starting the rock wall probably heard him.
“I’m good.” If imagining what he’d do to help her get off was good, which—to be clear—it was not. “I’ll be right there.”
She made her way back up the ladder to the platform. The tiny platform. The teeny tiny itty-bitty platform. It was hard to figure out where to stand so she wouldn’t be touching him. He was definitely a no-touch zone.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He tucked some hair that had gotten loose in her fall behind her ear. “We don’t have to finish this.”
“I’m not the kind of person who gives up.” Even if the leaderboard had them hovering near last now.
He grinned. “Then it’s game time.”
High on adrenaline and needing to get away before she did something stupid—again—Zara leaped onto the first of the padded spinning bars and, by the grace of God, finally made it across to the next platform. Her breaths came in hard pants as she watched Caleb rush across the spinning bars. Thanks to the fact that he was wearing loose-fitting shorts, she got some glorious views of his thighs working overtime as he did so.
Stop noticing that.
The distraction had hit the level that she didn’t move out of the way in time, and he nearly pounced on her in his final leap to the platform. She let out a squeak of alarm and stumbled back, nearly tumbling off the platform.
“Whoa,” Caleb called out, reaching for her and dragging her back from the edge.
That she ended up with her face pressed into his chest—thank you, height difference—at least worked to her advantage to cover up the fact that she took a deep inhale of his scent. God. What was wrong with her? He hated mashed potatoes. Only sociopaths hated mashed potatoes. It was a sign on top of all the other ways they were total and complete opposites that made this whole thing crazy.
“Thanks,” she said, her words muffled by the wall of muscle he called his chest, and took a half step back while hoping the extra few inches would clear her head.
It did. Sorta. She was aware enough to read the sign explaining the rules for the next obstacle, at least.
Zara tapped the part of the rules written in bold. “We’re skipping that part, right?”
His jaw tightened as his attention moved over to the sign and he narrowed his eyes, everything about him going from loose and easy to hard and tense with the added bonus of uncomfortable silence. She was trying to work out the reason for the change—shit, had she accidentally kneed him in the balls when he’d pulled her back from the brink?—when he let out a harsh breath.
“Rules are rules,” he said. “We’ve got to swing over to the next platform together.”
They both looked at the single heavy rope hanging next to the platform. According to the directions, they were to each put a foot in one of the loops made for that purpose, hold on to each other, and swing in a wide arc to the next, lower platform. Then, do it again to a platform closer to the floor and again on a platform only a few feet above the padded mat until they were back on the ground, the course completed.
Caleb grabbed the rope, steadying it. “You get on first.”
“This is going to be a disaster,” she said as she put her foot in the loop and wrapped her hands around the rope, the fibers scratching her palms.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” He jiggled the rope a little, chuckling when she shot him the evil eye in return.
“We land face-first on the net. Again.”
Looking around, she noticed that most of the Bramble daters were already done and watching the slowpokes still on the course. Some even had their phones out, no doubt to get a shot of Caleb to put up on social media. Great.
“Public humiliation while swinging on a rope with an optimist,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the last word. “Just what a woman loves on a second date.”
“What can I say, I’m the total package.” He put a foot in the hold and shoved off with the other one. “Let’s do this.”
They swung through the air in a long, sweeping half circle that made the tail of her bedraggled ponytail fly and her heart speed up. It was an amazingly free rush and, as they sailed by the second platform, she reached out for the pole without even worrying if it was possible. Somehow she just knew it would work.
It did not.
The metal pole in the middle of the platform was too slick to grip, and her fingers slid across it without stopping. That happened later after they drifted by the platform again, only now with their momentum shot, they were too far away to reach it. So they held on to the rope as it swayed in slower and slower circles until it finally came to a complete dead stop.
“We officially suck at this,” she said, wriggling to try to get some momentum back, a move that had absolutely no effect.
“Oh well, plan B. Time to play it by instinct and just go for it.” The words were barely out of Caleb’s mouth before he let go and fell into the safety net below them.
Looking down at the net and then over at the platform, her type-A personality protested, but she had to admit that Caleb had the right idea. Just like them dating, this obstacle course was only a game, so they might as well let go and have fun with it. She unwound her fingers from her death grip on the rope and did a very ungraceful back flop onto the net below.
They didn’t even come close to beating the course record; they didn’t even beat any of the other Bramble daters—not that anyone else seemed to realize it had been a competition.
By the time they were sitting side by side on a bench by the lockers putting their regular shoes back on, the awkwardness of earlier had faded and she could actually look at Caleb without wanting to crawl into a hole and hide—or climbing him and doing things to him.
“So, are you going to tell Asha all about my severely lacking balance skills?” he asked, scooting closer to her.
Nodding, she leaned down and buckled the strap of her high wedge sandals. “Without a doubt.”
“After what happened the other day with you going down hard on the sidewalks of our fair city, do you really think it’s a great idea to be wearing shoes like that?”
She sat up and glared at him. “That was a freak accident caused by slow-walking tourists. I can run in these.”
“Really?” One side of his mouth curled up in an ornery grin.
Was he teasing her? Yeah, more than likely, but she couldn’t let doubt like that stand. “Watch me.”
And she did it. She ran the small track beneath the safety nets accompanied by the cheers of encouragement of her fellow Bramble folks still putting on their shoes and chatting with their dates. Yeah, it may have been more to smooth her wounded ego after he’d given her the heave-ho when she’d started to make a move to kiss him, but a woman had to have her pride, and hers was pretty dinged up. That was all behind her, though—right up until she came to a stop directly in front of him.
There was something about how he stood there, his arms crossed over his wide chest, a crooked smile beneath his equally crooked nose that got her smack-dab in the middle of the overlapping circles in the he’s-so-hot and the this-is-a-bad-idea-but-I’m-thinking-it-anyway Venn diagram.
“I’m suitably impressed,” he said, falling in beside her as she walked toward the front door. “There’s no way I could do that.”
“I could give you lessons.” No. No, she couldn’t. That definitely did not fit into the five-dates-and-done plan.
“I might take you up on that.” He held open the door and moved to the side so she could go through first.
They walked out together into the bright sunshine of early September. Neither of them moved toward the parking lot. Trying not to notice how her body was on awareness DEFCON 1 being near him like this, she scanned the parking lot, looking for a sports car or ridiculously expensive luxury vehicle that he probably drove. Nothing fit the bill, and she was about to ask him which car was his when Gemma pulled up, stopping in front of them. Anchovy, with his sassy new doggie bandanna tied around his neck from his trip to the groomer, stuck his head out of the sunroof and gave her a happy hello bark.
“That’s my ride,” she said, willing her feet to move, which they did not. “Gemma was a lifesaver and took my dog to his grooming appointment while I was here.”
Another bark from Anchovy, who was looking between her and Caleb as if he was trying to figure out if he needed to intervene or jump out to get pets from a stranger.
“I can give you a ride next time.” He reached out, hand relaxed, so the dog could sniff his knuckles, which Anchovy did before using his snout to toss Caleb’s hand up and onto the top of his furry head for a good pet. “This guy would definitely fit in my truck.”
“Maybe,” Zara said, a fizzy awareness making her skin tingle as she got into the car.
Gemma didn’t say anything, but the raised eyebrow, oh-honey look she gave Zara promised there would be an interrogation later. As it was, Zara was rescued by Anchovy’s enthusiastic greeting when Gemma pulled the car into traffic. Zara tried to figure out what in the world she was going to tell her friend about date two when she had no idea what had just happened—because it sure felt like something.
And dear God, she didn’t even want to think about what might happen on date three.
Chapter Six
“Tell me everything or there’s no way we can be friends,” Gemma demanded as they walked into Zara’s apartment.
Anchovy galloped inside, rushing around looking for his oversize tennis ball that was the size of a mini basketball. Like the smart women they were, they stayed out of the dog’s way. No one wanted to stand between Anchovy and his most prized possession.
“What’s there to tell?” She patted Anchovy on the head and scratched behind his ears when he came over, ball in mouth. “It was an obstacle course. We should go sometime; it was actually pretty fun.”
Gemma took a sip from her double espresso soy latte with half a shot of hazelnut. “The course was or the date was, because from what I saw when I picked you up, it looked like the second one.”
“We were just standing there.” Closely, so much so that Zara could feel him even though he wasn’t touching her. “You have an overactive imagination.”
Her bestie just gave her the you’re-full-of-it-but-I-love-you-anyway scoff as she walked to the corner of Zara’s apartment that was filled with gorgeous natural light and, therefore, had been designated as her art studio.
“What are you working on now?” Gemma asked, her hand hovering over the unassembled dolls but not touching them.
“It’s a piece for the Friends of the Library charity auction.” Zara crossed to stand next to Gemma. “It’s gonna be a house filled with influential female authors reading one another’s books.”
By the time she was done, the two-story dollhouse would be filled with twenty-five handmade and hand-painted dolls, dressed in custom-made costumes, reading at the kitchen table, in the bathtub, on a couch, gathered by the fireplace, and tucked into bed. All the books on the shelves would have individual pages, and the covers would be one-twelfth-size replicas of first editions of the authors’ books. Her Etsy store of individual miniatures other people used was making bank instead of her own artistic scenes, but it was pieces like this that she really wanted to do. Miniatures art wasn’t the most popular or sought after, but there was something that made her soul feel lighter when she created a piece of art showcasing a one-twelfth-size world that she’d
love to live in.
“Your work really is amazing.” Gemma pivoted, the teasing upturn of her mouth gone, replaced by a tight concern. “You know I would have taken you to the charity ball as my plus-one anyway, right? I would never really stand between you and your dreams. I just really am worried about you.”
“I get it.” She did, sorta. They’d been friends for too long to get annoyed at her bestie’s pushy ways. “We both know what a softie you are.”
“It seems like the Bramble dates are going well, though.” Gemma picked up Jane Austen’s acrylic head.
“Let’s just say that Caleb and I have an understanding.” One with rules and structure.
“I hope that understanding involves orgasms.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Not yet, anyway. I saw the way he was looking at you. The man wants to carry you off and do the best kind of wicked things to your body.” Gemma put down Jane’s head and held out her hand. “I bet you that by date five, you’re banging him so good that your lady cobwebs will be knocked forever loose.”
Zara clamped her lips together before she did something she’d regret—like agree—and started futzing around with the mail on the counter.
“Our agreement didn’t preclude sex, but I’ll still take that bet,” she said, shaking her friend’s hand. “He is not the kind of guy for me.”
“Because he’s too oh-my-God-I-tripped-and-landed-on-your-big-cock hot?” Gemma tapped the tip of her nose with her finger as if she’d hit on the answer. “Yep, that’s totally it. You’re right. He’s totally not bangable.”
Zara fought to keep both the smile off her face and thoughts of a naked Caleb out of her head. She did not need to go there. Cobwebs or not, sleeping with a guy like Caleb who, according to his own words, hung out with people who couldn’t remember all the women they’d fucked was not something she was going to do. Ever.
“Very funny,” she said, trying to put into words the oh-honey-no alarms that went off around Caleb. “I mean, he’s hot and all, but he reminds me too much of my dad.”