Page 32 of Don't Fall

“True...but we both have to get up early for class tomorrow.”

He tips his head sideways, ridiculing me through narrowed eyes. “It’s three in the morning, Tess. I’m pretty sure we both blew any shot we had at getting a good night’s sleep.”

Tess. He called me Tess. The only other person who ever called me that was Aunt Edi. It stings, in a bittersweet way. “Alright. Which one of us is making the pot?”

He smiles and there’s something very pleased about his entire demeanor.

“You trust me to do it?”

“Good point,” I admit, beginning to climb out of the hammock in slow-motion in hopes I

can find a graceful way to do this, but mostly just drowning in gratitude over the fact I had the good sense to change out of that miniature dress and into my pajamas before stepping out onto my balcony tonight.

Then, just as I’m afraid I may wind up making a backwards somersault out of this thing, his hand comes for me, steadying me, lifting me the rest of the way out of this sling until both my feet touch down on solid ground.

“Thanks. Who knew escaping my hammock would be more terrifying than getting away from the creeper on the dance floor tonight,” I joke, smoothing my shirt back into place and making sure my stomach is completely covered again from where his grip pulled it up.

“Oh, that? I wasn’t trying to save you. I was there looking out for creeper.” He turns toward the sliding glass doors leading inside, then just before he goes inside, he turns back. “For all he knew, you might have had one of those small retractable umbrellas tucked up your dress, just waiting for any excuse to whip it out and bash someone’s head in.”

I grimace. “Very funny.”

He grins. He clearly thinks so.

“And your efforts just now? What? Trying to protect the ground from being smashed with my face?”

“I think we both know your face isn’t capable of that. Your heart of stone, maybe, but not your face.” He shrugs as if he’s still contemplating this. “But, no. My motivation for getting you out of that hammock were purely selfish. I want coffee. You want to make the coffee. Hence, the faster I get you to the coffee maker, the better.” He smirks. Just in case I missed the part where he was full of shit. I didn’t.

I follow him inside, then hurry around him to get to said coffee maker. It doesn’t have that strong of a pull on me, I just prefer having my back to him over seeing his backside. It’s too...thought-provoking this time of night.

We both move around the kitchen in silence while I make the coffee and Lane busies himself by getting everything else ready on the counter.

“Cream and sugar, please,” I say, without having been prompted by him. Coffee’s not even done brewing yet, but I saw him pull out spoons with the mugs, so that doesn’t leave much else to prep.

“I know,” he murmurs, his deep voice rumbling its way into my ears even while he’s standing several feet away with his back to me. This will probably prove to be problematic at some point down the road because two words just turned my empty stomach into a pit of explosive butterflies again.

“You do?” I ask, surprised.

His broad shoulders bounce softly in a non-committal shrug. “That’s how I made it for you the first time and we both know you’d have told me if you didn’t like it that way.” He turns to glance back at me over his shoulder, smirking. This only serves to remind me his smirk is an even bigger problem than his deep voice. My toes are tingling and I think my knees have disappeared. I’m floating now, thighs hovering in mid-air above my ankles. At least that’s the visual I’m getting. I haven’t looked down. Part of me is truly scared of what I’ll find.

Aaaand, brain capacity is dropping. I probably should have stayed out on the balcony. Where it was safe. And I had knees. I’d run back there right now if I could. But knee-less running is not a thing. You need knees. The bending, the connecting to your feet, all vital parts of running. Running is out. Clearly, thinking is too. But, there’s coffee. And Lane. Things could be worse.

Whether he senses my inability to move or has seen my knees disappear for himself, I don’t know, but I’m relieved to see him coming toward me, both mugs in hand.

“Do you really think my heart is made of stone?” I ask, purposely keeping my eyes on the coffee as I pour.

“You’re kidding, right?” Judging by the soft chuckle that follows, he seems to think so.

“You’re the one who said it,” I counter defensively.

“Tessa,” he says quietly, “No, I don’t think your heart is made of stone. I think you’ve built a lovely stone wall all around it, but the heart itself, I think is probably nowhere near as hard, cold or unbreakable.”

“This is really good,” I mumble awkwardly, sincerely sorry I ever mentioned my heart and trying desperately to bring our conversation back to coffee.

He smiles. Bad, bad Lane. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re feeling all self-conscious and embarrassed.”

My nose twitches, expressing my face’s indecision regarding a response. I can’t smile at that. It was insulting. But I want to smile at that. He called me cute! Do I want to be cute? I mean, do I want HOT - and - SEXY - midnight – coffee - drinking - didn’t - sleep – with - Jules - Lane to think I’m cute?! No. I don’t think I do. Also, he totally embarrassed me and then called me out for it. Jackass. I should have been way more hung up on that part than I was.

“You could have just said, ‘No, Tessa. I don’t think you have a heart of stone.’ You didn’t have to go all out and make things sappy and vulnerable and shit.”

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