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I climb up the foot holes, swing my leg over—
“Here.” Tucker grabs my left hand to steady me.
Zap!
Our eyes connect, and I know my frown will be mirroring his.
What is with this zapping?
“You do know I can do it myself,” I say softly, our lips almost touching as his hands find my waist, guiding me into the basket.
“Yep, but where is the fun in that? Then I wouldn’t have been able to put my hands on you, even though you come highly charged.”
I poke him in his rock-hard stomach. “This isnota date, so no flirting! And it isyouwho zapsme!”
“Okay.” His mischievous grinalmostmakes me laugh because I like the guy, and this is not a date, just like I told Jensen. No dates.
I turn my back on him, as much as the small space will allow. I have to stay strong against his charms, reminding myself his pretty packaging can’t get unwrapped. We are just two friends—period—on a balloon ride together. As friends.
“No detouring from the rules,” I murmur to myself.
“What was that, Hamlet?” The sound of the burners keeping the balloon filled with heated air muffles my words.
“Nothing,” I say louder, gripping the rim of the basket.
The burners’ flames are hotter than I thought they would be, ensuring the basket is a well-heated spot. After a while, I might not even need Tucker’s jacket.
Pilot Andrew goes through the safety measures once more, which we must adhere to if he directs us, and again I get this annoying nervousness flowing through me.
I mean, we are standing in a square basket that isn’t very big and is attached to a giant balloon or envelope as they say in the biz. What could go wrong?
Ugh! So much. It’s a freaking basket!
“Are you ready, guys? We are about to lift off,” Pilot Andrew tells us with a friendly smile. He looks at least fifty years old with salt-and-pepper hair and has a genuinely calm personality.
Before we can respond, there is a gentle floating sensation as we rise from terra firma.
“Just for the record, how many flights make for a qualified pilot?” I say more nervously than I care to admit. I hate that I am feeling out of my depth.
Pilot Andrew knowingly bares all his teeth in a wide practiced grin. “If it helps, I have worked for this company for fifteen years, and they have never had an accident or injury. I’ve been piloting hot air balloons every day of those years—weather permitting.”
“Good to know.” That is very reassuring, but we are still in a basket, and there is a first time for everything.
Not that I am being negative. I am all for going up and down safely.
“Hamlet, I’m right behind you if you need somebody to hold onto.” Tucker puts a hand on the edge of the basket, either side of me. “You can use me as a big cushion if—”
Not. Helping!
“I’m not scared.” But holy shit on a pumpkin stick, if I didn’t take a step back against Tucker’s chest—or he moved closer—as we rise higher and higher and higher. I am not usually fearful of anything, but weirdly I am feeling fear assaulting me swiftly.
Andhigher.
And I assume we are nowhere near as high as this thing can go.
The ride itself is gentle and peaceful, except for the loud fire breathing sounds of the balloon’s vital heartbeat from the burners, but the height and the helpless feeling ofwhat ifgrab hold of me, trying to strangle me.
I want to enjoy the ride, but my body slumps until my forehead flops forward, resting on the padded edge of the gondola with my hands clasped over my head.
