Page 138 of The Wild Card

I react on instinct—years of training taking over before my brain catches up. My arm shoots out, catching her around the waist, pulling her back against my chest before she can fall.

She gasps. Her hands grip my forearm. And suddenly, we’re frozen there, her back pressed to my front, my arm wrapped around her, both of us breathing hard.

“You okay?” My voice comes out rough.

“Yeah. Yeah, I—” She doesn’t move. Neither do I. “Thanks. That would have been a bad fall.”

“Looked like it.”

I should let go. I should step back, make sure she’s steady, continue down the trail like nothing happened.

I don’t.

She’s warm against me. I can smell her shampoo—coconut, I think—and feel the rapid beat of her pulse where my arm crosses her chest. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to.

“Crew.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“You can let go now.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to?”

No. Never. I never want to let go of you again.

“Hey, you guys okay down there?” Foster’s voice echoes from above us.

The spell breaks. I release her, stepping back so fast I nearly lose my own footing.

“Fine,” I call back. “Just a slippery patch. Be careful.”

Emmie doesn’t look at me as we continue down to the dock. But I notice the flush on her cheeks. The way her hands are trembling slightly.

I did that.

The thought should worry me. Instead, it sends a surge of something primal through my veins.

She still feels it too.

We spend an hour at the lake.

Foster and Sadie skip rocks. Emmie takes photos on her phone—the water, the trees, the dock. I sit on the shore and try to remember how to breathe normally.

The hike back is quieter. Emmie walks with Sadie this time, their heads bent together in conversation I can’t hear. Probably for the best. I need the distance to get my head straight.

It doesn’t work.

Back at the cabin, we fall into an easy rhythm. Sadie and Foster claim the Adirondack chairs on the porch. Emmie disappears into the kitchen to start on lunch. I busy myself splitting more wood, even though we have plenty.

Swing. Hit. Swing. Hit.

She still feels it too.

Swing. Hit.

You could tell her. You could just—