A neat arc of hot oil flips over the edge and splatters onto the floor with a soft, sinister splut.
“Oh, crap…”
I lunge for the paper towels, but my heel hits the slick spot before my hand finds anything.
The world slides sideways.
My stomach drops.
For one awful suspended heartbeat, I’m certain I’m about to do the world’s most catastrophic split and crack at least eight important bones.
I don’t hit the floor.
Strong hands clamp around my waist, hard and sure, yanking me backward against a solid wall of heat.
“Easy,” a deep voice rumbles right by my ear.
I gasp.
Boone.
My hands fly out, catching the counter, then skidding uselessly across it. His grip tightens, one big palm flattening over my stomach, anchoring me back from the edge of total disaster.
The radio keeps playing, oblivious.
My heart is committing several counts of aggravated assault.
“I…” I swallow. “I almost died.”
His chest moves against my back, a huff of dry amusement I feel more than hear. “You didn’t almost die.”
“Severe maiming, then.”
“I had you.”
I can feel all of him pressed against me. His forearms braced along my ribs, the firm line of his thighs solid behind mine, the weight of his chest against my shoulder blades. He’s big enough that I feel surrounded. Contained.
Safe.
I should not like that as much as I do.
“Are you hurt?”
“My pride,” I manage.
“Anything that actually matters?”
I stare down at my traitorous feet, now safely planted. “No. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move right away.
Neither do I.
The radio drifts into a slower song, steel guitar and heartache, and the kitchen seems to hold its breath with us. His thumb shifts once, a small, unconscious drag over the fabric of my shirt at my waist.
I forget how to breathe for half a second.
“Boone,” I whisper, “you can let go now.”
