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They hit a solid rhythm as soon as “go!” was called. The circus music played again, but this time, it felt like the soundtrack of a weird fever dream. Rowan stumbled and laughed, the hem of her sweater riding up as he steadied her. For the rest of the race, Harry palmed the solid upper curve of her bare hip, fingertips digging into the bunch and release of muscles beneath sweat-damp skin. He adapted his movement to the pace she set, and they swept down the field in tandem, like they’d become a single organism.
Harry’s composure unraveled with every flex of Rowan’s body under his hand, and with each of their mingled, laboring breaths. His imagination took control, and no longer were they racing down a field surrounded by cheering strangers on abright autumn evening. It was dark and quiet where Harry had gone, and they were alone there. Their bodies were united in an even more perfect rhythm, striving toward a different, mutually satisfying goal.
Christ.
He positioned his forearm across the fly of his jeans as he gripped the burlap in his fist—a meager attempt to hide an unmistakable and entirely situationally inappropriate hard-on.
They won the round. Harry sat on the ground with his head hung between his knees while Frankie and Arden ran their heat. Rowan quietly handed down a small cup of water from a nearby cooler. The sweet gesture made the ache even worse.
Subsequent relays didn’t require them to partner up, thank god. One round, they had to balance an egg on a teaspoon up and down the field. In another, they had to run with a balloon between their knees. Rowan came alive with laughter and self-deprecating groans when she fumbled her turns. But whenever Harry made eye contact, she’d slip her gaze away and button up tight.
He tried to not watch her ass each time she hustled down the field.
He absolutelycould nottake his eyes off her ass as she hustled down the field.
Their little team made it to the final round. Frankie and Arden—now fast friends—stood with arms linked, while a short guy sporting a fauxhawk and a grapevine tattoo up the bronzed skin of his forearm declared the rules for the championship tug-of-war game.
The opposing team looked to be a family—two college kids, their parents. The mom was petite, but the dad was tall, with a thick neck and barrel belly. Harry flexed his hands and hoped he didn’t make an ass of himself. He imagined being wrenched forward and flying through the air, cartoon-style.
Harry was the team’s anchor, standing at the back with the rope slung around his waist, feet planted wide. Rowan was directly in front of him. When the whistle blew, the crowd around them erupted in cheers. The big guy at the other end of the rope did most of the work for his team, getting a solid lead with a vigorous tug at the outset. Harry dug in his heels, but didn’t pull. Let the other guy wear himself out.
In front of Harry, Rowan was feral, yanking on the rope. Her gasping grunts and exhalations sounded so overtly sexual, he had to clear his lungs with a hard breath. He leaned away from her, focusing on the cottony clouds overhead.
“Dig in,” he said after a minute, quiet enough for only his team to hear. “Wait them out.”
On the other end of the rope, the teenagers got the giggles and started slipping. The mom lost her footing, and the dad was red-faced.
“Pull!” Harry called out. After a tense thirty seconds, the middle of the rope passed over their side’s goal line. They won.
When the judge blew the final whistle, the big guy on the other end abruptly let go. The rope went slack, and Harry’s team tumbled like a row of dominos. Rowan fell solidly backward between Harry’s knees, knocking the back of her head against his sternum. Frankie and Arden rolled away, overtaken by obnoxious, snorting giggles.
Frankie shouted, “For the win!” as she helped Arden scramble to her feet. Rowan collapsed sideways with laughter. Harry laughed too as he stood and extended a hand down to her. She tucked her palm in his and let him haul her upright.
And she kissed him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rowan
It was messy and quick, all surging momentum, without artifice. Rowan’s lips crashed into Harrison’s cheek, catching the very corner of his open, smiling mouth. Their laughter stopped abruptly, as if a needle had been lifted from a record. He jerked backward and swiped fingertips where the kiss landed, as though he could grab it in his hand to examine it.
Her body had pulled her into the kiss as surely as he had pulled her to her feet. All afternoon she’d tried to suppress the full magnitude of simple joy she felt in playing with Harrison. She’d finally been carried away by the silly thrill of the win and the delicious spontaneity of his laugh and the heat of him, and just—god, alightnessshe hadn’t felt in so long.
She wasridiculous.
“I’m sorry. That was—” she stammered, and pressed fingers to her forehead, her lips, her throat.
His expression softened. “What—” he began.
Rowan put up a hand in a wordless plea for silence. His tongue darted out and nudged the corner of his mouth where her lips had just been. She backed away, bumping a man pushing a stroller, and nearly knocking cotton candy from a child’s hands.
Someone grabbed her from behind and gently squeezed herupper arms. Arden. She shifted around and smiled, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Then she snagged Harrison by the hand and pulled him in the opposite direction.
“Time for dancing!” Arden said. “Rowan, come on!”
Harrison looked back, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. The crowd swarmed around them, and once they were out of sight, Rowan took a breath so big it made her lungs burn.
It wasn’t like she’d stuck her hand down his pants and propositioned him for a quick screw behind the funnel cake truck. Honestly, though—that would’ve been easier to recover from. She could have played that off with relative ease. The simple sweetness of the kiss made it seem somehow more audacious. More important.
