Page 138 of Dating Goals
“Hand her off,” he calls to Griffin.
Griffin squeezes my hand. “Go with him. I’ll lead them away.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
Wilde pulls me away before I can respond. We veer sharply into a narrow chasm.
“In here,” Wilde commands, ushering us into a crevice barely visible among the rocks. “They’ll pass right by.”
Sure enough, the pursuers roar past our hiding place, chasing the decoy agents still zigzagging down the slope. I watch the chase continue. Despite the identical outfits, I spot Griffin instantly by his distinctive hockey player’s stance. His weight centered low, powerful turns, with the same confident edge he shows on the ice.
The pursuing guards close in. One by one, the agents peel off in different directions, each followed by a cluster of confused pursuers. Eventually, only Griffin remains, trailed by three guards on snow bikes.
Griffin speeds toward the edge of a massive drop, gaining momentum rather than slowing. The three pursuers close in, weapons raised.
“No, no, no,” I whisper.
He picks up speed, heading straight for the cliff’s edge.
“What is he doing?” My voice rises in panic.
I race to the edge of a parallel ridge, watching in horror as Griffin speeds toward the precipice without slowing down.
“Griffin!” I scream uselessly as he launches off the cliff edge, soaring into open air. For three heart-stopping seconds, he’s in free fall.
Then, with a snap, a parachute deploys above him. Brilliant red and white, a giant maple leaf unfurling above him. That lovely, ridiculous man has the Canadian flag printed on his parachute. The guards skid to a halt at the edge, unable to follow.
Relief floods through me so intensely my knees nearly buckle.
“Rather dramatic, isn’t he?” Wilde comments, appearing beside me.
The helicopter swoops down, hovering near our position. Wilde signals with a laser pointer, and the craft descends toward a small clearing.
“Time to go,” he shouts over the noise. “Your boyfriend is meeting us at the rendezvous point.”
We ski to the clearing, where the helicopter awaits with rotors whirring. Wilde helps me aboard first, then follows me inside. The craft immediately lifts off, banking sharply away from the mountain.
We descend toward a snowy, open space where I can see Griffin’s parachute already collapsed on the ground. He’s unbuckling his harness when we touch down.
I don’t wait for the rotors to stop. I leap out, stumbling through the snow toward him, my skis long abandoned.
“You idiot!” I yell, throwing myself into his arms. “You magnificent, ridiculous idiot!”
Griffin catches me, his arms strong and secure around my waist. His face is flushed from cold and exertion, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes.
“I love you,” I blurt out, surprising myself as much as him. “I love you and your stupid hockey quotes and your crazy stunts and?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss that warms me from the inside out. His lips are surprisingly soft against mine, a sharp contrast to the rough stubble grazing my chin. My heart stutters, then races, and I melt into him completely. Griffin’s arms tighten around me, pulling me closer until I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine.
I’ve spent twenty-five years avoiding this very thing, building walls around myself, and here comes this goofy Canadian crashing through them like they’re made of tissue paper. My fingers find their way to the curls at his collar, still damp from snow and sweat, and I hold on as if he might float away if I let go.
When he finally pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. His brown eyes are dancing with joy and surprise and delight. It makes my stomach flip in the most wonderful way.
“If this is my reward,” he says, pressing another kiss on the tip of my nose. “I might have to jump off more cliffs.”
“Welcome to Italy,” Wilde announces dryly as he walks past us. “Follow me.”
