“Franny,” I say, sounding like Lucca. “Random act.” I give each word more umph this time. “We’re never telling that it was us. Remember?”
“Fine,” she groans—finally she’s the one complaining instead of me. “I never saw this in a romcom. And if you drop me?—”
“I’m not going to drop you. Stop whining. Hold onto my shoulders and your foot in my hands. Let’s go.” I tap her hip, moving her along.
She sets one foot in my laced fingers, and with her hands on my shoulders, she hops on her one foot, searching for momentum. Fran stated it perfectly—she isn’t athletic, not even a little. That’s never more apparent than when she’s springing up, then down, two inches from my body, the tropical scent of her shampoo and the lingering aroma of pancakes and sausage from her workday filling my senses, trying to take control of my mind. I swear her essence is trying to convince me that I am supposed to findmy person. It’s preaching that love is for Callum Whitaker after all.
I just need my head cleared of coconut, pineapple, and maple syrup.
“Okay,” I say on her third bounce. “That’s enough. Ready?” I spring up with her, lofting her foot and body into the air. She’s off like a short-range rocket. Grabbing hold of the wall, she hoists herself up the rest of the way and perches atop it.
“I did it,” she says, a breathless smile on her face.
“Stay there.” I hand up the first tray of tulips and thank my lucky stars when Fran is able to grab them. She sets them on the wall at her left, then reaches for the next.
With our flowers and tools perched on the wall next to Fran, I take five steps back, hit that stone wall at a run, and launch myself to the top.
“Whoa,” she says as I drop down to her right. Her face is flushed, and her hair wooshes back as if swept away with the breeze I’ve caused. I’ve surprised her. I’m not sure if romcom-remaking Fran Fairchild gets surprised all that often. She’s always the one doing the surprising.
Swinging my legs over the side, I hop to the ground, eight feet below.
“You landed like a cheetah!” she says.
The house feels ever closer on this side of the fence. I hold one finger to my lips, reminding her we need stealth and silence.
“You landed like a cheetah,” she whispers more to herself than to me.
I smother a laugh. “Hand me the flowers.” We’re like choreographed bees quietly working in theirhive. Last, she hands me the bucket of tools, then I hold my arms up to her once more. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Yep. I’ve got you.”
“You”—she points down at me—“are going to catch me?” She points at herself.
“Do you have a better plan?” I say. “Come on, Fran. Be a cheetah?”
“I’m not a cheetah! I told you I wasn’t.”
“You told me you weren’t athletic. But I am. I’m athletic enough for the both of us. So, jump.”
She clamps her teeth down on that red lip. “Jump?”
“Jump. Nowhere to go but down, Franny.”
But apparently, “jump” to Fran means something completely different than it does to me or all other humans. By “jump,” I meanremove yourself from the wall. Hop down. Land in my arms. Easy does it.
But “jump” to Fran Fairchild means launch yourself like a missile. Spread your arms like wings and leap as far and as fast as you possibly can.Holy bananas, woman.
I’m guessing the whole incident takes four entire seconds, and yet it’s set in slow motion in my head. I see her—leaping, not like a stealth cheetah but a colossal beast flying through the air, a roar ripping from her lungs.
I stumble over my own feet, pedaling backward, trying to gauge, my eye on the prize. I plant my feet, hold out my arms, and with a grunt, she lands—right on top of me, and with so much force, I am knocked to the ground.
With a heaving breath, Fran lifts her head, her face centimeters from mine. “You did it. You caught me.”
“Yes, cheetah,” I wheeze and cough out a breath. “I caught you.”
Truly she barreled into me, took me out, and I happened to soften her fall. But whatever.
