Page 2 of Space Crush
Kaley Parker.
My stomach sinks lower than my ass in the ball pit.
Looking as unimpressed as I probably deserve, Kaley, the woman who effectively ghosted me after what I considered to be the hottest goodnight kiss following the best date I ever went on in my thirty-eight years, folds her arms over her chest. “Are you hurt?”
Recalibrating, I muster up a smile I’ve been told is charming. “Only my pride.”
My charm fails, as with unfaltering seriousness, Kaley assesses my position in the ball pit. “Can you stand?”
“Ah…” I shift to my side and grimace when the weight of the SAFER threatens to pull me down again.
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off, not wanting to look completely helpless in front of herorthe kids. “Maybe if you could help me lean sideways, the angle would be enough for me to swing my feet under me without toppling over.”
Her frown deepens as a breeze from the moon bounce’s air compressor plays with the wisps of hair around her forehead, damp with sweat. Sweat no doubt from wearing utilitarian cargo pants in the Texas autumn heat while wading through a sea of dense plastic balls.
“That way,” I rush to explain, “I’d be able to propel myself forward until I was on all fours so I could crawl to the edge of the ball pit and leverage myself up and over the ridge.”
I admit it isn’t the coolest exit strategy, and while I wasn’t expecting her to applaud—the eye roll stings.
“Or…” She bends over, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder, the ends tickling my temple.
Side note—Kaley Parker smells like lemons.
My brain, too busy enjoying the clean, fresh scent that seems to somehow fit perfectly with her no-nonsense attitude, doesn’t catch on to what she’s doing. And when my brain’s synapsesdofinally start firing, it deduces that the citrus-scented safety expert is going to try and fireman carry me out of the bounce house.
“Oh, don’t pick me up, I’ll?—”
Snick.Snick.
The two buckles she unfastened at my chest cause the straps of the heavy SAFER jet pack to slide off my shoulders and fall onto the cushion of plastic balls behind me.
My mouth drops in a silent O.
Kaley’s nostrils flare, which I’m pretty sure is from trying to hold back laughter.
The kids watching, uncaring of my ego, laugh outright.
Once more, Kaley stretches out her hand, a challenge in her sparkling eyes. As if she’s expecting me to be annoyed or ungrateful for her help, embarrassing as it might have been.
But honestly, I’m not the slightest bit upset.
I’m impressed. And maybe slightly turned on.
Two things that are normal occurrences when it comes to Kaley Parker. When she isn’t infuriating me with her lack of text response and call-backs.
On a deep exhale that’s half-laugh, half-exasperation, I take hold of her hand, this time allowing my much-lighter self to be pulled to my feet.
There’s a rush of lemon-scented air before I’m inches away from her strait-laced expression, the seriousness marred by the barest hint of a smile.
Her freckles remind me of the constellations I used to track as a kid.
“You good?” There’s a flicker of concern in her eyes as we bob up and down, our muscles bracing to keep balance, and I wonder if I look like a lovesick cartoon character.
Summoning up the dregs of my earlier confidence, I squeeze the hand still holding mine. “I?—”
“Superman!” The youthful exclamation is followed by a burst of pain as a kid, who probably felt like the ball pit restriction was over now that the toppled astronaut is standing, tackles me from behind.
In seconds, I’m once again covered in balls.
