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“This isn’t a date,” I murmur when no number of screams from my brain have my legs following its command. My body enjoys being cocooned by Laken’s warmth, and not even remembering that I know nothing about him, bar his name and age, have my feet budging.
Laken hums like he disagrees with me before shifting his focus to the vast skyline stretched to Hopeton.
I suck down an unhealthy whiff of his scent before following the direction of his gaze. It is surreal that I’m so close to the edge but not breaking out in hives. I feel free, almost weightless.
If it wouldn’t make me look like an imbecile, I’d be tempted to thrust out my arms and do a corny rendition of the famousTitanicscene.
A couple of seconds later, I crank my neck back to Laken. His laugh is soundless, but since my body is scrutinizing every minute move he makes, I know laughter is rumbling in his chest.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” His one word is chopped up by a chuckle he can’t hold back. “It’s just that you’re humming the lyrics from the ‘I’m flying, Jack’ scene”—he mimics Rose’s voice—“but also gripping the railing so tight your knuckles are white.”
“Because I’m scared. A fear of heights is nothing to be laughed at.”
His eyes widen as his smile is wiped from his face. “You’re afraid of heights?”
“Yes!”
“Then why the hell are you standing here? Looking down at that.” My head grows woozy when he thrusts his hand at the people too small to resemble ants. “Whoa. Careful.” He bands his arms around my waist and draws me back until my backside squashes against his crotch, and his breaths tickle my ear.
Our closeness doubles my wooziness, but before I can force distance between us, he skyrockets my pants to gasped breaths. “Step onto the railing.”
“Are you insane? I’m not doing that.”
If his voice gets any hotter, I’ll melt where I stand when he whispers in my ear, “Do you trust me?”
“No, I don’t. I hardly know you.”
Laken acts as if I never spoke. “Don’t peek. Keep your eyes closed.”
“That’s not what he said,” I gabber out as we inch closer to the edge of the railing. “Jack would have stopped the instant Rose said no.”
“But then the magic would have never occurred, and we’d still believeCasablancawas the greatest romance movie of all time.”
“At least untilThe Notebookcame out,” I argue, my words not as strangled by panic as they were only seconds ago. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
“I’m not making you do anything, Nicole. This is all you.”
When I peer back at him, primed and ready to call him an idiot, my words lodge in my throat. Inches separate us—far more than my deviant head is happy about—and I suddenly feel hopeless.
“I can’t—”
“Step onto the railing,” Laken encourages before I chicken out.
“I—”
Another denial is cut short, but the cause of the interruption is nothing close to what I was expecting. It still follows theTitanicnature of our exchange but exposes I have a lot to learn about the man standing across from me.
Even with his facial expression teasing, Laken’s voice is more polished than Leonardo DiCaprio’s when he sings a line from “Come, Josephine, in my Flying Machine.”
I assume he will stop at the one line everyone knows from the movie, so the fact he recites more shows his love of music is as strong as his love of classic films.
Only a true music buff memorizes lyrics to popular blockbuster jingles.
When Laken reaches the last line of the song, inspiration slaps back into me hard and fast. My run-in with him in the elevator already awarded me a handful of lines, but they’re presenting more structurally now. They’re almost entirely formed.
I stammer past Laken so haphazardly his swallow reveals he’s certain I’m racing for the exit, much less his panicked mumble. “I’d never force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, Nicole. I just wanted you to see you as I—”
