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“Can you not call me that?”
“Why?”
She opens her mouth and shuts it.
I get up again and walk over, hold out my hand. She stares at it.
“Come.”
She sucks in a breath.
“Hannah,” I say, “I meant come with me.”
“Right, of course. Yeah. That’s definitely…” She takes my hand, and I walk her out of the living room and down the hall toward the front door. She’s barefoot, but I don’t want to get spooked and run before she’s done what she’s always wanted to do.
Being scared is a mindset.
The first step to moving on from it, to becoming fearless, is facing your fears head-on.
I open the front door, and she hesitates on the threshold.
“What if we get hit by lightning?” Hannah blushes. “That was dumb, sorry.”
I scoop her off her feet, and she shrieks a giggle. I run us both into the rain, sloshing across the waterlogged ground in front of my cabin. It’s flooded, the water reaching the bottom of Hannah’s car door. My truck is a little higher and safer from the rain.
Hannah laughs and tilts her head back so that the rain spatters down on her face.
She’s beautiful and free, even in the cage of my arms.
“Put your legs around my waist,” I say.
Hannah’s eyes widen, but I shift her so that her arms are around my neck, and her legs wrapped around my middle. She clings to me, and the rain intensifies, pouring down from above, soaking us both through, but her feet are protected from the water, and she’s got me.
And so we dance.
I sway her on the spot, and she presses her forehead against mine, our body heat mingling.
“Like this?” I ask. “Is this what you pictured?”
She shakes her head. “It’s better.” She shouts it over the rain, her lips inches from mine, droplets of water running down her nose, over the contours of her mouth.
The way I want to kiss her is unreal. It’s almost overwhelming. She shivers against me, then tips her head back and lets out a whoop of joy, rising high against my body.
I carry her back inside and set her down in the hallway. We’re both dripping wet as I run through the house, grab her a towel and guide her through to the living room. I stand her in front of the fire, and then give her the glass of wine before jogging back to the front door and making sure I locked it on the way in.
“You need to go shower and get warm,” I say.
“But you’re soaked through as well,” she says.
“I’m fine. You shower first. Come on.”
The song on the radio changes, and Hannah freezes halfway across the living room. “Oh my?—”
“What?” I ask.
It’s the first smooth notes of “Put Your Head on My Shoulder” by Paul Anka.
“I love this song,” she says, with a pretty smile.
