Page 316 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“I’m early.” He shrugs, his smile turning sheepish. “Can you blame me?”

My brow pinches, and I stare at him for a moment before what he’s talking about dawns on me. The time and place I set. The offer he made that has, unbeknownst to him, been overshadowed by my issues he has no clue about.

“No. Um, no.” It’s his turn to study me, his eyes looking closer than I want him to. “I, uh, I have to bring a team up first. You’re going with us,” I ad-hoc. Dodge and weave.

“Like hell I am.” He laughs and takes a few steps closer.

“Yeah, I think you need to cash in that voucher. I’m not tandem jumping with anyone, so I can strap you on.” The words are out before I realize what they sound like, and the full-bodied laugh that falls from his mouth and echoes around the room is worth every ounce of blush that creeps into my cheeks.

“Thanks, Em, but strap-ons aren’t my thing, and if they were, it wouldn’t be you wearing one.”

“I hear pegging is all the rage these days.”

The look he gives me says he’s having none of this conversation. “It’ll be a cold day in hell, my dear.”

Oddly enough, all it takes is talking to Grant about strap-ons to put me at ease for the first time all day. My smile feels real instead of forced and brittle. The ache in my shoulders eases some. The box cutter becomes less enticing. The weight of the unremembered dream fades.

“If that’s your biggest fear, then jumping out of a plane should be a piece of cake.”

“I didn’t say it was my biggest fear—jumping out of a plane is. Heights and I don’t get along.”

“Still traumatized after going on the Ferris wheel, I see,” I say, suddenly remembering him screaming to get down and trying not to cry as he clung to his mom sitting between us. The sour look on his face says he isn’t thrilled I remember.

“Nice try, but I’m not biting. I hate the feeling of falling, and let’s not forget the whole possibility of dying aspect.”

“See? That’s a huge misconception. There is no feeling of falling when you jump. Not one bit.” I offer a huge grin.

“Not buying it.”

“Don’t you trust me, Malone?” I stand there with my hands on my hips, my head angled to the side, and my eyes issuing a challenge to that manly ego of his.

“No.” There’s no waffling in his voice when he says it, and while I should be offended, I’m not in the least.

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Sorry, Em. Trust isn’t going to save me when I’m hurtling to the earth at a million miles an hour and my parachute fails to open.”

“Pfft. Such dramatics.” I roll my eyes but smile when I realize he really is petrified of the idea. It’s in the shift of his feet and the sudden shaking of his head as if he’s physically rejecting the idea every time it gets brought up.

It takes a lot to overcome that kind of fear.

I should know.

“Dramatics? Life and death,” he says as he pretends his hands are scales weighing each one. In his scenario, death wins. “I’ll stay here and watch with my feet planted firmly on the ground.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrug as I slip my arms into the sleeves of my flight suit and zip it up over my red tank top. “You’re gonna miss one hell of a ride.”

“I know somewhere else I can get a ride,” he murmurs suggestively as I walk past him and laugh.

“Head up. Wings out,” I say.

There are hard limits.

And then there are hard limits.

Like watching the specks in the sky above me as they hurtle to the ground and knowing one of them is Emerson.

My hand shields my eyes, and my stomach churns when I think of the feeling of falling. It’s total bullshit, there’s no way you can launch yourself into thin air and not feel like your stomach shoves up into your throat.