Page 9 of Puck Prince

I expect some aggressive I-told-you-so-ing, but Owen just nods. “Alright. Do you think you can get your leg over the railing? If you can sit on it, I can pull you over.”

I nod, though looking at the narrow space between the balconies and the long drop to the ground, I’m suddenly not so sure. My heart is racing, and I think I might be sick.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

I look up at him. His eyes lock on mine, holding them. Holding me. “I got you.” The way he says it, I believe him.

Slowly, I step up onto the bottom of the railing. Then I swing one leg up, a death grip on the iron barricade.

“You got this,” he says. “Go slow. Have faith in your muscles. They’re not weak—they’re just tired.”

I stop, looking at him. I coined those words. He doesn’t know that. Can’t know that.

I step with my second foot to swing that leg over, too, but my foot slips on the wet metal.

“You good?” he asks, true panic in his voice.

I nod. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t love that you’re barefoot.”

“I don’t love that my ass is hanging out.” I maneuver to sit on the railing.

“I don’t hate that part.”

He smirks.

I glare.

“Alright.” He holds out his arms and leans over until they’re close enough for me to reach. “Grab my forearms just below the elbows, and I’ll do the same to you. Keep your arms strong and use your feet against the bars to push off. I will not drop you.”

It means letting go of the rail. I look down. “You sure?”

“Look at me,” he says again. His eyes holding mine again. “I promise.”

I reach out with one hand and, as soon as I do, his hand—a large, warm, trustworthy hand—clasps my arm.

“Now, the other one. It’s okay. I got you.”

I nod again and grab his other arm.

He offers a reassuring smile. “See? Not going anywhere. Count of three and you’re going to push off. I’ll lift you onto my side.”

Another nod.

“One… two… three.”

I push. He pulls.

I shriek, because, well, fear of heights and possible death. He lifts, and one flexed-muscle moment later, I am on his side of the balcony, my body wrapped around his. In the adrenaline of the moment I seem to have spider monkeyed around his large, athletic body. He does smell like cinnamon rolls.

“You good?” he asks as both our chests—which are pressed together as he continues to hold me—rise and fall.

“Yeah. Easy breezy. Nothin’ to it.”

The air between our mouths swirls together. Hot, wet, humid as the Texas sky around us. And it takes all of two seconds before our mouths crash into each other. He props me up in his arms, my legs instinctually wrapping around his toned waist, and I run my hands through his hair, releasing a second wave of that scent.

Fuck, this man smells edible.

---