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The raccoon bares its teeth and snarls, the sound low and menacing.
We are so going to die.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Back away slowly.”
He takes a step and I take it with him, our hands gripped together.
The raccoon takes running steps in our direction and then stops again.
I squeak in alarm. “It’s following us.”
“We need to move slowly and stay calm.” His voice is a low, soothing rumble.
The raccoon opens its mouth and shrieks, the sound reverberating through me.
I jump, grabbing at Atticus with my other hand. “It’s going to kill us. It’s a homicidal raccoon.”
“Turn around and walk back down the trail. Slowly. No sudden moves.”
It’s a testament to my trust in Atticus, the bone-deep knowledge that he would die before letting anything happen to me, that allows me to follow his directions. I wrench my eyes away from the raccoon, turning around and taking careful steps back down the path. We move back to back, our hands still linked, Atticus walking backward behind me with shuffling steps.
After interminable heart-thumping minutes, Atticus finally speaks. “Okay, we’re good. It’s gone.”
All the gathering stress whooshes out of my body, leaving me lightheaded. My heart races, vibrating against my rib cage. My breath saws in and out like I ran a marathon instead of walking at a snail’s pace for two hundred yards.
“We almost got ravaged by a feral raccoon,” I say slowly, using the back of my arm to wipe sweat from my brow.
A giggle bursts out of me and I smack a hand over my mouth.
But it’s too late. Atticus’s shoulders shake and we double over, my hand still gripped in his.
“You should have seen your face,” I tell him through fits of laughter.
“Me? You were so scared you almost squeezed my hand off,” he says, wiping his eyes.
“You’re still squeezing my hand off.” I look down at our linked hands.
His eyes drop too, both of us staring down where our fingers are joined.
Awareness reverberates out from that point of connection, spreading warmth through my body, the heat coiling low in my stomach.
Maybe it’s the sudden release of tension and almost dying at the tiny hands of an evil raccoon, maybe it’s because Atticus is the sexiest, sweetest, most compelling man I’ve ever met, but all I can think about is his lips on mine, his body covering me.
Our eyes lock.
His gaze is a reflection of the turmoil pounding through me, hot, conflicted, searching for permission.
“Taylor—” he starts, his tone tortured.
“I know.” I step into him, lifting up on my toes and weaving my fingers into the thick strands of his hair.
His head dips and then his mouth clashes against mine.
ChapterFourteen
Atticus
