Page 3 of Jump

“But that’s just it.” Daring, arrogant, he extends his hand and slides the tip of his pinky finger along my forearm, and smirks when goosebumps follow after. “Your body doesn’t think. Which is kinda why I can stand here at all. Just like yours, my brain is firing all over the place. Telling me no. Shouting that this isn’t okay. But our bodies…”

“Maybe I’m married, and your entire spiel is a waste of semi-decent pick-up lines.”

Pointedly, he looks to my left hand and raises a single brow. No ring. “Are you married?”

“Well… no,” I admit. “But maybe I’m in a committed relationship, and your advances offend me.”

His chest bounces, though the sound doesn’t come out. “Are you in a committed relationship?”

No, damn him, I’m not.

“Does my presence offend you?” he presses, tenacious in his pursuit of my time.

“I’m not sure,” I murmur.

And hell if that isn’t the truth. His presence confuses me most of all.

As though my incomplete answer is telling enough, his lips curl higher and his eyes lighten a little. Not a lot, considering the dim lighting in the elegant ballroom. But enough to assure me there’s a sweet guy beneath the rough exterior.

Maybe.

“What’s your name?”

“M-my name?” Danger! Danger, Will Robinson. “Um…”

He tilts his head and studies me curiously. “Problem?”

“We’re at a masked ball.” I stand taller and lift my chin, demanding the confidence I came into this room with. The strength granted me by the anonymity, the dress, the heels. “I would prefer not to exchange names.”

“Hmm…” The way his mouth twitches is enough to keep me standing still. Watching his amusement. Engaging, when my instincts scream at me to run. “I suppose that’s fair.” His eyes drop to mine. “Since we’re at a masquerade ball. Why don’t you tell me a name instead?”

“I just—”

“Any name,” he interrupts. “Make one up. If you could have an alter ego. Or a nickname. A pseudonym, if you will.” He takes my glass and tips it back for a sip that leaves me slack-jawed.

He may be the most arrogant stranger I never knew.

“I want to be able to call you something,” he continues, “and beautiful is starting to sound cheesy.”

“Ya think?”

I accept my half-empty glass when he offers it, and obsess over the arc of the rim where his mouth was a moment ago. Do I keep drinking? Do I hand it off to the next server who wanders by? Do I—

He places a finger beneath my jaw and lifts my face until our eyes meet and goosebumps sprint to my toes. “Name?”

“Ana.” I swallow the ball of nerves in my throat and blink. Once. Twice. “Short for anarchy.”

He chokes out a laugh and releases my chin, which is both relieving and disappointing. “Anarchy. Alright. I see what you did there.” Bending his arm and jutting out his elbow, he gives it a little wiggle when all I do is stare.

When I remain still, he huffs out an impatient breath, grabs my free hand, and wraps it through his waiting arm. Then we’re off, slowly wandering the edge of the ballroom to continue the trek I had started before he interrupted my reverie.

“So, if I’m to call you a fake name, then I guess I should provide one in return.” He studies the room as we walk, considering and thoughtful. “You can call me Jump.”

My brows knit in confusion. “Jump? Like, take a long jump off a short pier?”

He snorts low on his breath. “Pretty sure the saying is ‘take a long walk off a short pier’. But sure, you have the word right. Jump. Anarchy and Jump. Works for me.”

“Why Jump?” Stop being curious! Stop, stop, stop it! “It feels awfully specific, while also being entirely vague.”

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