Page 39 of The Romance Adventure

“I’m five feet five inches. That’s average height. It’s not my fault that you’re a giant.”

“I’m six-three. Shorter than Magnus and Ryan—by half an inch,” I add because he’d have a field day if he heard me admit that.

“No other reason, eh?” she asks.

“Nope. I’m a practical person. It was for practical reasons. I didn’t know your name.”

“You could’ve chosen from a variety. Smoothie Lady or⁠—”

“Your friend had a smoothie too.”

“Muffin Maven.”

“Menace to Society.”

“That’s not inaccurate.”

I almost laugh.

“What about Truck Driver Who Forgot To Check Her Fluids Before Getting On The Road? Though in my defense, I left in a hurry.”

“No, that’s too long.”

And we’re too close. Strawberry Shortcake stands by my side. If someone put a zipper between us and lifted it, we’d be touching. But I also didn’t realize while we bantered back and forth that we’d looped back to the main resort building—the Galleon, named after a type of ship like the rest of the buildings on the property. Safety tape covers some of the windows—a storm precaution. Others are broken. Shingles hang askew. The welcome sign paint is chipped and battered.

She starts up the steps, but I grip her wrist. “No.”

“Let’s see what we’re working with.”

“We can’t go in. It’s too dangerous.” And there are too many memories.

She pivots as if ready to lay into me about the will when she teeters. Her upper body swings toward me, but her legs don’t move. Both heel tips of her shoes stick in the gap between the wooden slats of the steps.

I catch her in my arms and half of the shoes go flying across the lawn. The lower sections remain jammed in the steps.

Her striking blue eyes are wide, filled with fear, until seconds later she must realize she’s not splayed on the ground.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Her lips loosen from a frozen O and lift into a megawatt smile. “Thanks for catching me.”

“Thanks for not spilling anything on me.”

“I still owe you half a muffin.”

“If we’re keeping track, a T-shirt too.”

“Are we keeping track, though? If so, by my accounting of the back and forth, we’re even.”

I quickly run the numbers in my head—she drenched me with a sticky juice beverage, ruining my shirt. Then she got stuck and I helped her get her truck going. Next, she read my grandfather’s will. So no, I’d say we’re not even, unless I count the way her touch makes my world slow down for just long enough for me to breathe again.

My voice is low when I say, “We have to stop doing this.”

“Do we?” she asks with a flirty smile.

I’m not sure how to answer that question with her arms ringing around my neck. Mine are on her waist. Chests together, her heart pounds from nearly falling down a short flight of stairs.

Something rattles against my ribs and I should resist it.