Page 27

Twenty-Five

“Why did we just buy a dozen tulips?” Fran asks, looking down at the armful of pink and yellow flowers I’ve placed into her arms. “Are we passing these out to people on the street?”

“Nope. Last night, Will Baxter and his wife Alice came to our team meal. I overheard her tell one of the guys she wanted to line the front entrance of their house with tulips because they’re happy.” I chuckle. I didn’t know flowers had emotions.

“So, we’re giving these to her?”

“Random act, Fran.” I wink, and like fall leaves changing right before my eyes, Fran’s cheeks turn red in front of me.

Red . One little wink, and Fran is a cherry tomato.

“We are going to climb over their locked fence, sneak into their yard, and plant these flowers for Alice. Without telling her who did it.”

The amber in her eyes sparkles. “Breaking, entering, and planting?” She tilts her head, watching me, her grin widening as if it were a flower in bloom. “I like it. ”

The wall around the Baxter’s home is tall. Holding my hands together, I crouch in front of Fran. “Ready?”

“You go. Then I’ll go,” she says.

“That’s not going to work. Come on, I’ll hoist you up. You grab onto the wall’s edge and drag yourself to the top.”

“You have a lot of faith in my athletic ability.”

“You can do this,” I tell her. I’ll hoist her—it won’t take much ability to finish her way to the top. Still, she doesn’t look convinced. “It’s an eight-foot wall. You can try to jump, but that takes a whole lot more ability.”

“I want to try.” And she does. On the very last word of her sentence, Fran jumps and doesn’t even come close to the top of that wall. Breath leaves her in a gust as her feet hit the ground once more. “We could knock.”

“Franny,” I say, sounding like Lucca. “ Random act .” I give each word more umph this time. “We’re never telling that it was us. Remember?”

“Fine,” she groans—finally she’s the one complaining instead of me. “I never saw this in a romcom. And if you drop me?—”

“I’m not going to drop you. Stop whining. Hold onto my shoulders and your foot in my hands. Let’s go.” I tap her hip, moving her along.

She sets one foot in my laced fingers, and with her hands on my shoulders, she hops on her one foot, searching for momentum.

Fran stated it perfectly—she isn’t athletic, not even a little.

That’s never more apparent than when she’s springing up, then down, two inches from my body, the tropical scent of her shampoo and the lingering aroma of pancakes and sausage from her workday filling my senses, trying to take control of my mind.

I swear her essence is trying to convince me that I am supposed to find my person.

It’s preaching that love is for Callum Whitaker after all.

I just need my head cleared of coconut, pineapple, and maple syrup.

“Okay,” I say on her third bounce. “That’s enough. Ready?” I spring up with her, lofting her foot and body into the air. She’s off like a short-range rocket. Grabbing hold of the wall, she hoists herself up the rest of the way and perches atop it.

“I did it,” she says, a breathless smile on her face.

“Stay there.” I hand up the first tray of tulips and thank my lucky stars when Fran is able to grab them. She sets them on the wall at her left, then reaches for the next.

With our flowers and tools perched on the wall next to Fran, I take five steps back, hit that stone wall at a run, and launch myself to the top.

“Whoa,” she says as I drop down to her right. Her face is flushed, and her hair wooshes back as if swept away with the breeze I’ve caused. I’ve surprised her. I’m not sure if romcom-remaking Fran Fairchild gets surprised all that often. She’s always the one doing the surprising.

Swinging my legs over the side, I hop to the ground, eight feet below.

“You landed like a cheetah!” she says.

The house feels ever closer on this side of the fence. I hold one finger to my lips, reminding her we need stealth and silence.

“You landed like a cheetah,” she whispers more to herself than to me.

I smother a laugh. “Hand me the flowers.” We’re like choreographed bees quietly working in their hive. Last, she hands me the bucket of tools, then I hold my arms up to her once more. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yep. I’ve got you.”

“You”—she points down at me—“are going to catch me?” She points at herself.

“Do you have a better plan?” I say. “Come on, Fran. Be a cheetah?”

“I’m not a cheetah! I told you I wasn’t.”

“You told me you weren’t athletic. But I am. I’m athletic enough for the both of us. So, jump.”

She clamps her teeth down on that red lip. “Jump?”

“Jump. Nowhere to go but down, Franny.”

But apparently, “jump” to Fran means something completely different than it does to me or all other humans. By “jump,” I mean remove yourself from the wall . Hop down. Land in my arms. Easy does it.

But “jump” to Fran Fairchild means launch yourself like a missile. Spread your arms like wings and leap as far and as fast as you possibly can. Holy bananas, woman.

I’m guessing the whole incident takes four entire seconds, and yet it’s set in slow motion in my head. I see her— leaping , not like a stealth cheetah but a colossal beast flying through the air, a roar ripping from her lungs.

I stumble over my own feet, pedaling backward, trying to gauge, my eye on the prize. I plant my feet, hold out my arms, and with a grunt, she lands—right on top of me, and with so much force, I am knocked to the ground.

With a heaving breath, Fran lifts her head, her face centimeters from mine. “You did it. You caught me.”

“Yes, cheetah,” I wheeze and cough out a breath. “I caught you. ”

Truly she barreled into me, took me out, and I happened to soften her fall. But whatever.

“Wow.” She grins. “That was just like a movie. I jumped?—”

“You flew,” I mutter.

“And you caught me.”

Her chest and stomach surge against me. Her hips press into my abs while her breath and body heat take up every ounce of my space. Chestnut hairs frame her face in a halo, the ends of her soft locks hanging down, brushing my cheeks.

“Are you ready to get up?” I ask, a little more air in my lungs this time.

“Oh. Right.” Fran laughs softly—as if the idea never occurred to her.

Her legs tangle with mine, making the whole process more difficult than it should be. But she makes her way off me, and a cool Tesoro breeze seems to hit me out of nowhere—she’s gone, and I might as well be knocked on my backside again.

Of course, I’m not up yet. So, no need to actually knock me down.

Fran holds out a hand to me, offering me help up. I’m more than capable, and she’s not all that helpful. Still, I slap my hand into hers, and while she tugs, I push myself up off the ground.

She isn’t manhandling me; I’m not sure she’s strong enough. And yet, once again, our bodies collide before I stand myself up tall, reaching out to steady Fran by the elbow.

She swallows. Her eyes gaze up at me.

We are not in a romcom. I am not her happily ever after. But she’s looking at me like I might be. Our dating is strategic. It has a purpose. I’m helping her. She’s helping me. I know that. She knows that.

But it feels like something else at this moment.

I clear my throat and reach down for the bucket holding our newly purchased garden shovel and gloves. “Ready?”

“I’m so ready,” she says with a grin that speaks so much more than those three little words.