Page 50 of The Roommate Remodel

This man who’s a beast on the ice is tying my shoes. And he’s doing it so carefully, like I’m his only concern in the world.

There goes my heart, right off the edge of this platform.

As he double-knots my shoe, he pats my foot before gingerly placing it on the ground like I’m Cinderella in a glass slipper.

“You look ready,” he says with approval.

“One question, though.” I tap my helmet. “Does this make my head look big?”

“I like big heads and I cannot lie,” Brax deadpans.

I laugh, and it breaks the tension, making me feel a little braver about hurling myself off this platform. The rest of the group is so far ahead of us now, I can’t even hear their hollers.

“Let’s do this before I change my mind,” I declare with a mix of terror and excitement.

He puts on his harness, tightening the straps. “Remember the mantra. Don’t think. Just close your eyes...”

“And jump,” I finish.

He hooks me to the wire before securing his own, and the zip-line guide gives us a thumbs up to proceed. “We’ll go at the same time, so you won’t feel so alone.” He points to the double wire so we can zip-line in tandem, one of the unique features of this course.

“You want to witness the look of sheer terror on my face as I careen toward my death?” I say, only half teasing.

“Maybe I can take a picture of it and put it on the team social media account. Just like those roller-coaster pictures.”

I smack his arm. “If you dare, I’ll push you off this platform myself.” I give him my dagger eyes.

“You’re going to shove me off after helping you?”

“Maybe. But you’re nice to have around.Sometimes.”

“Sometimes, huh?” He smirks.

“Don’t get a big head about it, okay?”

He points at his helmet with a cheesy grin. “Already have.”

I moan at his bad joke.

“Now, just hold still.” He grabs my hand. A shiver runs through my body as his palm holds mine, like an unspoken promise that he won’t let me fall. “I’ll walk you to the edge.”

Warmth surges through me at how patient he’s being. He’s not making fun of me the way the other guys might have.

“It’s just like stepping off the curb,” he explains. “Except, you know, with more flying.”

“Curbs don’t require participants to sign a safety waiver,” I remind him, my heart racing with each step.

“First jump is always the hardest.”

“Is that an official zip-line proverb?” I ask, my palms clammy.

“Trademark pending,” he says, trying to keep the mood light.

I drop my hand and clutch the handle. Swallowing hard, I edge closer to the end of the platform, my heart thundering against my ribs. Then I make the mistake of looking down. The earth spins as my body wobbles, and I imagine falling to my death right here.

My chest tightens, like someone’s wrapped me in steel cords. I gulp for air.

“Brax,” I say in a strangled panic. “I can’t breathe.”

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