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I did.
It was an amazing run. Very freeing. I got great speed, and even managed to put a hand on my hip in a social media-worthy pose. Perfect execution.
Until the very bottom.
The plan had a flaw.
I hadn’t counted on someone being right at the bottom of the railing, pressed against it, holding a drink.
There was no way to stop myself. I tried, attempting to jump off the railing, but my timing was off. I was going too fast, and before I could maneuver, I just plowed into the back of him. As if he had sensed movement behind him, he turned exactly at the moment of collision. My center of gravity was off and I was falling head down.
I took an elbow to the chin.
And a martini in the face.
Vodka went into my mouth. Not bad.
Vodka went up my nose. Not great.
Vodka went in my eye. That freaking sucked. “Ow!”
I grabbed the guy around the midsection and tried to find my feet. My eyes were closed against the blinding, stinging liquid. Damn it. It was a dirty martin
i. Olive juice on top of vodka really was a bad combination. In my eye, anyway. I licked it off my lips.
“Are you okay?”
I couldn’t see shit, eyes watering viciously and still primarily closed, but I managed to right myself to a standing position. “I think so.”
Except for the fact that a giant manhand was on my face, attempting to wipe away the spilled drink. It almost made me lose my balance all over again.
I took a step back to escape the swiping.
“Dakota?”
The man knew my name. Thank God. That would be way less embarrassing than running into a total stranger. Unless it was the landlord because I owed him two hundred bucks. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to know because my eyes were still stinging and I had zero visibility. But I used my knuckle and dried my tears.
My words died when I realized who this guy was.
It was him.
Brandon.
The man who had helped me escape my surprise wedding and taken me ice-skating at Rockefeller Center.
Standing there in a navy button-up shirt over tight black jeans that showed off his muscular build. Looking big and broad and sexy as hell. His eyes were wide in recognition.
“Dakota,” he murmured again, this time without question.
His tone was so pleased, so sensual, so intimate, like we had shared something more than one hot kiss under the mistletoe, that I nearly had an orgasm listening to him.
“It’s you,” I said, because I’ve always wanted to say that. They do it in movies all the time, and never, ever, in real life is there an opportunity to say something as dramatic as “it’s you.” But this was my chance and I took it.
I had been absolutely sure I would never see this man again and yet, here he was standing in front of me. This was definitely an improvement over angry anti-V day drinkers.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Brandon asked again. He touched my chin briefly, a tender, sensual stroke. “I think I clipped you with my elbow.”
My chin was actually throbbing. My eyes were still watery and my nose was running. “I’m totally fine,” I said, still stunned. “I was, uh, going down the stairs and I fell.”
