Page 35 of Pretty Savage: Defy

The one that’s above the balcony. Above the seventh floor. Above the ground far enough that falling would involve a trip to the Emergency Room.

His back rests against the shingles, and his feet swing lazily over the edge.

“Please tell me you aren’t part mountain goat?” I say, peeking over the railing to the parking lot below. I’m instantly dizzy.

He chuckles. “Not as far as I know.”

“Then how’d you get up there?”

“Stepped on the railing and pulled myself up,” he answers like that’s something normal people do.

I judge the distance from the balcony to the roof.

From the roof to the pavement below.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m climbing onto the metal railing and rising unsteadily to my feet.

“Laurel, don’t,” Carrson warns, but it’s too late. I have to jump, but then I’ve got my hands on the edge of the roof and I’m attempting the world’s worst pull-up. My elbows bend halfway, my feet swing out over empty space, and that’s all I can do because, shockingly, years of carrying books doesn’t translate into upper body strength.

I panic for a moment, but Carrson’s hands are on my forearms, and he’s dragging me over the edge with ridiculous ease. The roof’s edge scrapes my belly and knees as he pulls me up. I tumble forward and collide with him, knocking him onto his back with me sprawled across his chest.

“You do know you’re several feet shorter than me, right?” His voice is a rumble, more vibration than words.

I lift my head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I can stand on the railing and reach the roof,” he says. “You had to jump.”

I look back at the gap between the railing and the roof, which seems wider from up here.

I think about that. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“In hindsight, that does seem important,” I add, nodding wisely.

“You think?” He pulls me closer. “Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Deal.” I nestle my head into him, listening to his heartbeat. The fast-paced rhythm from hauling me onto the roof changes into something slower. Below us, headlights slide through the parking lot. Somewhere in the distance a child laughs.

“What’re you doing up here anyway?” I ask.

It takes several seconds before he answers, “Thinking.”

“About?” The wind catches a loose strand of my hair and blows it across my face. Carrson reaches up automatically, hooking it behind my ear.

The silence stretches so long I think he won’t answer. Then he says, “You scare me sometimes.”

That makes me push myself up onto an elbow. “You mean when I almost jump to my death?”

“No.” A soft chuckle follows, but it’s tinged with sadness. “Although that was terrifying.”

I don’t like the pensive expression on his face. “Then what could make the mighty Carrson Ashford scared of little ol’ me?” I inject some teasing into the words, trying to lighten the mood.

It doesn’t work.

Carrson exhales a sigh. “You make me dream dangerous dreams. Impossible ones.”

“What do you mean?”