Page 366 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I glance over my shoulder and he’s only a few strides behind. His tall frame moves with effortless speed.
“Run my little Fox.” His voice is delicious.
I push myself harder, enjoying the thrill of the race. His footsteps thump louder as he gets closer. He’s going to fly past me.
He always did.
Then in one smooth motion, his hand is on my waist, pulling me toward him. I squeal as my feet leave the ground, and in a swift, playful move, he tackles me like I’m part of one of his old football plays. We fall together, but he makes sure I land safely, his entire body shielding mine.
He pins me to the ground and leans over me, his chest still heaving from the exertion, but his eyes are full of amusement, and something deeper—tender.
“You cheater.” I’m breathless, and the rush of the run buzzes through my veins.
“You looked like you were about to topple over. I just helped you out.” His tousled hair frames his face.
“You lost your hat.”
“I’ll find it.” His nose brushes mine, then his lips are in mine.
A slow, teasing brush at first, teeth grazing lightly, tongue flicking just enough to make me shiver.
His hand slides down my side, warm and insistent, pressing me closer as the kiss deepens. He swallows my moans. Iclutch his shirt, pulling him nearer.
His mouth moves hungrily, lips crushing, tongue sweeping mine, heat building sharp and fast.
I arch into him, gasping softly, every nerve alive under his touch.
Suddenly, a bark cuts through the quiet, and the dogs burst over, tails wagging, noses nudging, yipping like they own the moment.
I jerk back, laughing breathless, brushing hair from my face.
He grins, breathless too, hand still lingering at my hip. “I think they’re jealous.”
The dogs circle us, nudging and barking, and we both flinch, breaking apart, flushed and laughing. Once we’re back on our feet, our hands link as we finish climbing the hill.
As we break the crest, I see something nestled in the old tree’s branches that wasn’t there before.
“Is that treehouse?” But I already know it is.
It’s not some makeshift treehouse thrown together by a group of kids with leftover plywood and nails they’d stolen from their dad’s garage.
No, this was different.
Its weathered wooden walls and slanted roof stand strong with age. A small porch juts out, surrounded by sturdy railings, and a rope ladder hangs down.
“I built it.”
“You built it?”
“After I got hit, I would come here to get away from my family when I felt like they were smothering me and I built this. For you.”
My breath catches.
“For our bucket list.”
“You built me a treehouse?”
He tugs me toward it. The dogs run ahead, barking into the wind, ears flapping with joy.
