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“But you’re hanging from your fingers!”
“Fingers are stronger than you think,” I shrugged.
He took the next one, and then the next. Each was more eye-opening than the last.
“Bungee jumpin’?”
“High steel bridge, Washington.”
“Skydiving?” he asked incredulously.
“That one’s actually not that far from here,” I said. “A really cool place in Gardiner, called the Ranch.”
He slid another one over, this time taken underwater. I was floating in the Pacific, surrounded by schools of colorful fish.
“SCUBA too?”
“Wreck diving,” I nodded, looking back at the photo. “That was more dangerous than all the others combined, believe it or not.”
Connor was staring back at me with all new eyes now. Like he was seeing an entirely different person.
“You ticking off the numbers on some bucket list, love?” he asked. “Or do you have a deathwish, or—”
“Neither,” I said, lifting the photo from his hands and putting it back.
I looked at him, and was suddenly aware of my proximity to his sweaty, post-workout body. Connor still looked pumped and magnificent. It occurred to me that only a single layer of cashmere separated my otherwise naked body from his.
“The others are really away until tomorrow?” I asked.
I could actually feel his eyes locking on mine. Slowly, he nodded.
“Tomorrow night, yeah.”
I was looking through him, into him. Past those light brown irises and into everything that lay beyond.
“Wanna do something fun then?” I smiled, my eyes flashing.
A single eyebrow went up as doors opened. Possibilities existed.
“More fun than movie night?” he asked.
“Wayfucking more,” I told him.
Nine
CONNOR
“Cherokee nine-zero-one-zero Whiskey Tango on right base for runway two-three,” she called smoothly into her mic. We were getting lower now, dangerously closer to the ground. From the co-pilot’s chair, I stared at the instruments and clutched my seat.
Another voice, a male one this time, called back through my headset: “Whiskey Tango, you’re cleared for landing,” the tower operator said. “Runway two-three.”
“Cleared for landing on two-three,” she repeated. “Whiskey Tango.”
Sitting beside me, Jordyn was flying the plane. Actuallyflyingthe plane! I hadn’t believed it when she made me drive us to Greenwood Lake airport. Which was more of an airstrip really, a couple miles south of the house.
Once there, she’d been greeted at the desk by someone who actually knew her. She signed in, and was handed a little plastic placard with a single key.
“What exactly are we doing?” I’d asked for the fourth time.
