"Okay, bird whisperer," I say. "How do we do that?"
"We need a bigger net." He surveys the barn like he's calculating square footage and fallout zones. "And we need to work together."
We find a decorative fishing net I'd planned to use for a nautical romance theme. It's heavy, awkward, and perfect.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, the net stretched between us, the silence now alive with shared focus. Not awkwardness, not tension.
"On three," he says. "One... two..."
We lunge.
The dove we'd focused our attentions on, of course, dodges. We lurch too far, stumble, and fall straight into the net we were aiming with.
The world collapses into a tangle of coarse rope and Mason Kincaid.
One second, I'm lunging with full proposal-planner determination. The next, I'm on my back, tangled in netting, with Mason landing solidly half on top of me.
The breath rushes out of my lungs.
His weight anchors me, but it's not crushing. It's warm. Solid. Real.
His arm's caught under mine, the net looped around our shoulders. He shifts to brace himself, which somehow brings him even closer.
His face hovers above mine, lips parted like he might speak but doesn't.
He doesn't need to.
His breath stutters against my cheek. I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, woodsy and clean, mixed with the warm scent of the old barn.
There is less than an inch of space between us. My heart knocks against my ribs, a messy rhythm I can't get ahead of.
He's watching me. Not in that calculating way he does. This time it's softer.
Like he sees more than he should.
"This isn't supposed to be happening," I whisper. Not a protest. More like a confession.
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
"Our agreement didn't cover fishing nets," he says. Almost like an apology. Almost like a dare.
We don't move.
A dove coos somewhere above us, oblivious and smug.
And still … we don't move.
His heart thuds against mine. Or maybe it's only mine, responding to the weight of everything unsaid.
The lines we drew feel blurry now. Like they've melted in the heat of this ridiculous, unexpected moment.
I exhale. "We should …"
"Yeah," he says, but neither of us shifts.
When we do, the untangling is slow. Careful.
Elbows bump. Fingers graze.
