Page 102 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

When it’s my turn, Devon opens the clear door, and I step inside, with him holding my arm. The wind catches me instantly. For the first second, nothing in my body understands what is happening. Then Devon positions my arms and lifts my chin.

I float. I am actually floating!

The roar swallows every sound except the rush of air around me. My hair is trapped beneath the helmet, and my mouth is stretched into a grin I can’t control.

Devon loosens his hold on me, and I stay up. I look through the glass and see Miles watching me, his entire face lit with pride. I am doing it. I am indoor skydiving on a first date with my best friend, who is apparently in love with me.

Devon signals for me to straighten my legs. I do. He signals for me to relax. I attempt that, too.

I am just hanging out, flying, living my best life ever, until the final thirty seconds, when I drift sideways faster than expected.

Devon catches my shoulder and redirects me. My stomach drops. The wall seems much closer. I overcorrect, my legs bend, and suddenly I am rotating toward the exit with none of the grace Miles demonstrated.

Devon grips my flight suit and guides me down.

My brain interprets the change in direction as “we are falling to our death in a room specifically designed to prevent that.” So, I panic. As one does.

Not extensively. Only enough to fling one leg forward as I near the doorway. That heel I flung connects with something solid, and there is a sharp sound beneath the roar. Then I am sitting on the padded floor while Devon still has hold of my suit. Miles is crouched beside me with one hand pressed to his jaw.

Even grimacing with one hand to his face, he is so very attractive. Which, of course, does not improve my feeling guilty.

Devon looks at him. “That’s why we keep clear of the doorway.”

“I was trying to help.”

I scramble upright. “Did I kick you?”

Miles moves his jaw experimentally. “I’m fine. It was a glancing blow.” There is already a red mark along the left side of his jaw. Horror rolls through me.

“I kicked you in the face on our first date.”

“I’ve been hit harder.”

“Sentences like that stopped being reassuring last Saturday.”

He smiles, then winces.

“You are not fine!”

Miles gives me a wry smile. “I’m on a date with my best friend. Trust me, Reese, I’m fine.”

Devon examines Miles’s jaw, gives him an instant cold pack, and assures us nothing appears broken.

Miles insists I take my second flight. I resist until he says, “You’ve wanted to do this for years. You’re not ending it because I ignored a safety instruction.”

So, I fly again.

This time, Devon keeps a firmer grip near the exit, and Miles remains well behind the door with the cold pack pressed to his face. By the time we leave, I am exhilarated, my hair has expanded to twice its normal volume, and Miles has the beginning of a bruise along his jaw. I feel terrible. I also want to do it again immediately.

“Where now?” I ask as we return to his car.

“Dinner.”

“You can still chew?”

“Yes.”

“Say ‘statistical susceptibility.’”