Page 19 of Out on a Limb

Our best chance to really sell this caper.

“Kiss me,” I blurt, flushing hotter than lava the second the words leave my lips. Stig jolts straighter in his chair, like I just hit him with fifty volts to the chest. “Doesn’t have to be fancy or anything. Just a peck. But make it look real.”

Frosty blue eyes slide to the side, taking in our audience, and understanding filters through Stig’s expression. He clears his throat, shifting on his chair. Honestly, I’m surprised that spindly little thing can hold up his muscled bulk at all, because the metal squeaks in warning every time he so much as breathes.

“Are you sure?” Stig reaches over to cup the side of my face, and my cheek presses automatically into his hand. Like we’ve done this before a thousand times. Like we were made for this.

I wet my lips, heart banging. “Uh-huh.”

Stig leans forward slowly. So freaking slowly—like there’s a chance in hell I might change my mind. The pigeon coos beneath the table, pecking at my boot, and the smoky autumn breeze ruffles my hair. Stig’s chair squeaks, and his warm breath mists against my lips.

Can’t look away. Can’t breathe. Can’t even blink.

It’s finally happening. Finally.

Then—

Crunch.

“Motherfucker!” Stig lurches out of his twisted chair, only his lightning-fast reflexes keeping him from hitting the ground. The pigeon explodes from beneath the table in a puff of threadbare feathers, and someone nearby shrieks with cut-off laughter. The gossipy buzz around us gets louder.

I stare up at my shocked fiance, then down at the mangled chair, its legs splayed, then back up at him.

Stig breathes hard, chest rising and falling beneath his gray knit sweater. He’s more shaken up than I’ve ever seen him—and you’d better believe I’ve watched every single adventure film of him online.

“What the fuck,” Stig says, nudging the chair with his boot.

I burst out laughing.

He gives a rueful glance at me; a harder kick at the ruined chair. The metal scrapes against the paving stones, and now we’re really making a scene. But who cares?

Can’t stop laughing, even though my sides ache and tears brim in my eyes. Even though everyone’s looking now, telling each other what happened in hushed tones, cutting off their snorts when Stig glances over.

“Should’ve filmed it for your channel.” Moving gingerly, I push my own chair back and stand up too, still giggling. “That was an adrenaline sport right there. One of your closest calls.”

Stig digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and shakes his head. Secretly, I love when he covers his face like that, because I can look my greedy fill, staring wistfully at his strong arms, his lean waist, his muscled chest. “Kill me now.”

“The gods have spoken.” Reaching for the cake plate, I break off a small piece of chocolate sponge and sprinkle it on the ground in case that pigeon comes back. “No fake kisses for you.”

Stig drops his arms. “Fuck that.”

I barely have time to wipe my fingertips on my jeans. Barely have time to glance up, breath hitching, eyes going wide, before—

“Mmph.”

Stig claims my mouth with his own, his beard tickling my chin, and I sway into his arms. The heat, the rush, the roaring sound in my ears—it all messes with my balance and knocks my body into his.

That’s my excuse, anyway, for how I arch against Stig and press every inch of us together, my arms hooking around his neck.

He grunts and kisses me again, deeper this time. We sway together on the edge of the town square, buffeted by a pine-scented breeze.

My jaw clicks. My heart slams against my ribs, so hard that Stig can probably feel it through his sweater. And there’s nothing shy about this kiss; nothing practice or pretend.

If this is a peck, I’m an alien from outer space.

My breaths are shaky as Stig pulls back an inch. All I can taste is coffee and chocolate and him.

“Sorry,” he mutters, so quiet only I can hear. “Was that—?”

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