“There’s the water taxi,” Jonah breathed. “It’s coming to the stern platform.”
Tzipi nodded, the wind cutting through her hair. A smaller boat was easing up through the wake, its shape more felt than seen. All its lights off. Water slapped at the ship’s sides, competing with the low throb of the engines. Both beating like a giant heart.
Meanwhile, her own heart plummeted when she saw it: the short service ladder bolted to the stern of the Matzo Baller, rungs wet and waiting.
“We still have to go down that?”
“Just a few feet. I’ll be right below you.”
“But it’s so, so dark.” Her whisper was a whimper.
“Sometimes…” Jonah swung a leg over first. “Sometimes you gotta be your own flashlight in the dark, Tzipi.”
Her breath caught.
“That was one of Rosie’s lines. Mine!” She was stunned. “Season four!”
“Episode six.” He grinned up at her in the faint light.
“You’re a Room to Bloom fan?”
“I even had the lunch box.”
He winked, for real this time. Then disappeared down the ladder to the water taxi’s deck below.
She took a deep breath, lifted her hem and followed, hands clamped on the slick rail. One rung, then the next. Then her heel slid.
The world tilted. One stiletto skittered, clanged against metal, then vanished into the black. Hitting the water with a delicate, traitorous plunk.
She froze.
Jonah’s hand was warm on her other ankle. “Let it go.” He eased off her remaining shoe. “It’s okay.”
The crowd above cheered – the drones had formed a burning heart between the bridges. Perfect cover.
Tzipi slowly descended to the next rung, bare foot to metal, and felt his arm close around her waist, steady as a promise. “I got you.”
The deck was cold and wet, and she half-stumbled, half-fell into his arms. He guided her the rest of the way onto a hard bench.
“Hang on, folks.”
The boat pilot didn’t have to tell them twice; Tzipi clutched the tux material of Jonah’s broad shoulders as he pulled her against him, their mouths landing on each other’s in a decadent, overdue velvet crush. Warmth washed through her. We did it.
Although she wasn’t completely sure what it was yet.
All she knew was that she was being thoroughly kissed by the man she had thought was her bodyguard. The gentle giant she had wanted to kiss – to be alone with – since the moment she saw him.
Those large hands – one caressing the back of her neck, the other sending sparks up her spine as his fingers memorized it.
She fisted his untucked tux shirt to bring him closer, meeting each stroke of his tongue and sighing as he caught her top lip with just the perfect pressure before coming up for air.
“I still can’t believe you’re a Rosie Bloom fan,” she murmured, for his ears only.
His low chuckle was warm against her temple.
“I’m a Tzipora Solokoff fan, actually.”
Heat gathered in her belly, pooling to places she hadn’t considered in so long. Yet the bench was hard and cold under her bottom. And the wind insisted on rudely cutting in between them, whipping her hair extensions against both of their faces.
