I groan, and he peers down with concerned eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes?”
It’s a question because quite frankly, everything hurts.
He leans in so close I can see at least three different shades of green in his eyes.
“Please tell me you didn’t hit your head.”
“I didn’t.” He exhales, relieved. “But I’m pretty sure my tailbone is nonexistent at this point.”
He laughs, closing his eyes and dropping his forehead to mine. “I can work with a broken butt, but not a concussion.”
I stop breathing again.
I stop moving.
I’m pretty sure time stops too, because I couldn’t tell you how long goes by as we lie here, Dean on top of me and me trying not to breathe, like I’m a corpse in a TV show and the camera is zoomed in on my face.
He sinks lower. I swear I can feel his lips ghosting against mine.
And I swear I want to feel more.
“River?”
“Yeah?”
He swallows. Once. Twice.
“I…uh…I—”
“Well, this is an interesting turn of events.”
We whip our heads toward the voice coming from above.
“Hey, Lucy,” Dean drawls out casually.
Our building manager stands over us, her bright purple-painted lips stretching from ear to ear, hands on her hips.
Dean rolls off me, sitting beside me, drawing his knees up. I push up to sitting, my tailbone seriously aching with the movements.
“How are you?”
Lucy tucks her lips together at Dean’s ridiculous attempt to act like she didn’t just catch us almost kissing.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Dean Evans just almost kissed me!
And I almost let him.
“What are you kids doing here?” she asks.
“Skating.”
“On the floor? Horizontally?”