Page 60 of Stalkers Anonymous

Cole steps out of the marsh, mud dripping from his elbows. There’s a leaf stuck to his ear. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Planning what?”

“Jack.”

Jack sighs and hands me a towel. “Look. When you texted me Wednesday saying you wanted to take her on the skydive of her life, I had two options. Standard landing zone—boring, forgettable, totally fine. Or…”

“Or?” I prompt, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Or the memorable option.” He gestures grandly at the marsh. “Decades from now, you’re going to be telling your grandchildren about the day you fell out of the sky with Grandpa Cole and landed in a swamp. Decades.”

“Grandpa Cole?” Cole repeats, somewhere between offended and appalled.

“You’re welcome.”

“You purposely landed us in mud,” I say.

“I purposely gave you a story,” Jack corrects. “Mud was just the medium.”

“You’re unwell,” Cole tells him.

“I’m romantic,” Jack counters. “There’s a difference.”

I’m laughing too hard to be angry. And I’m shaking so hard from the laughter that mud is falling off me in clumps. “Jack, I have only spent a handful of minutes with you, and I’m already terrified of being on your bad side.”

“Then stay on the good one.” Jack passes me a water bottle.

Cole shakes his head, scattering mud in Jack’s general direction. “I’m going to put cinnamon in your coffee for a year.”

“That’s barely a threat.”

“Every cup. Every single cup.”

“Try me.”

Jack has already covered the seats of the company van in towels, so Cole and I pile into the back for the drive to the hangar. The towels help, but we’re still leaving a mud trail everywhere we go. Jack seems unbothered, which makes me suspect this isn’t the first time he’s transported soggy jumpers.

“Same time next month?” Jack asks as we pull up to the airstrip.

“Absolutely,” I say before Cole can answer. “But maybe we’ll check the ground conditions first.”

“Noted.” Jack grins at me in the rearview mirror.

Cole and I transfer to his truck, towels on the seats to protect the upholstery. The heater blasts as we pull onto the road, and I’m finally starting to feel my fingers again.

“Was that…normal?” I ask. “For Jack?”

“Disturbingly so.” He cranks up the heat another three degrees. “He once flew me to a ‘tactical training site’ that turned out to be a paintball facility full of his nieces and nephews. I lost. Badly. To a six-year-old named Mira.”

“I might be in love with Jack.”

“Don’t tell him. His ego cannot withstand additional fuel.”

We drive for a minute in silence. Shimmers of adrenaline still course through my body, the corners of my lips quivering with the beginning of a smile every time I think about flying. The heated seat beneath and behind me reminds me of having Cole at my back, his steady presence making me feel safe even while I was falling through the air.

And there was that other presence.

Hard and hot—and, if I’m not mistaken, a good eight inches.