‘They’ll spot where we go immediately if we go up that path.’
He’s right. The path ahead is almost deserted; we would practically be in a spotlight. He starts to move again and I check behind us to see if our followers have successfully stuck to us. No sign of them yet.
I feel a tug on the stick and find myself being pulled towards a small gap between two food stalls.
‘What are we doing?’ I squeak.
‘Hiding, come on,’ he says, beckoning me in. Biting my lip, I hesitate. I turn back one more time to check if the girls arestill behind us and with a jolt, I spot a tell-tale green dress and blonde head.
Darting in between the food stalls, I squeeze myself in between Elliot and the wall. Unfortunately, it is… tighter than I expected.
‘Sorry,’ I gasp as I press myself against him to get out of sight. The drumstick still hangs by our hips – but every other part of me is pressed tightly against Elliot’s hard frame. The unfamiliar exertion of running on my body means that my breaths are still coming out in heavy pants, making my chest heave and creating even more friction between us. And the pressure of his body is making it difficult to compose myself.
Oh God. Please stop reacting to this man. He is just a man.
Trying to wriggle away from him slightly does not yield much of a result, but it does elicit a very quiet, strangled intake of breath from him. He looks like he wants to die.
Which is fair. So do I.
For some reason, he absolutely refuses to look anywhere near me. He’s probably embarrassed. He should be. This was clearly a terrible idea.
I just wish we weren’t such a similar height – his warm breath is tickling my lips and tiny wisps of his hair keep brushing against my forehead. It feels like he’s everywhere. My senses are overwhelmed with the scent of him, the feel of him. How his arm brushes against mine in rhythm with his breathing. The way his hip grazes my own, as much as I try to prevent it.
A troubling thought strikes me: I don’t want to be that girl, the one who starts trembling at the first sign of physical contact with Elliot Walker. The idea of him picking up on my heated reaction and feeling pity towards me as a result is unbearable. Finally getting a hold on my breathing, I steady myself.
Gingerly peering around the corner to spy our followers’ position, I spot them walking down the path next to us with theirheads whipping around to find us. I pull back, slotting myself back into position. But Elliot’s hand suddenly grips my waist, and then he’s expertly manoeuvring and twisting us around so his back faces the path, blocking me from view. I stare at him, breathless.
‘Sorry, your hair is… eye-catching,’ he says quietly, his voice rougher than usual. ‘Better to hide you.’
Well. He’s not wrong.
My waist tingles with the memory of his hand on me, and I fiercely try to keep a creeping blush at bay.
What is happening to me?
We’re still standing eye to eye but with a little more breathing space between us now. To my amusement, he tries to appear casual to passers-by and leans against the wall of the stall.
‘Can you see anything?’
I angle my head to try and get a view behind him.
‘They’re still there,’ I breathe. ‘I don’t think they’ve seen us, though.’
They both linger in the middle of the path looking nonplussed. A sizeable part of me inwardly applauds at the sight.
‘Any sign of them leaving?’ he asks tightly.
My eyes catch his briefly and I definitely detect a hint of desperation. I’m sure he’s keen to get out of this situation as much as I am.
‘Not really. Hopefully they won’t take long.’
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair roughly. If I didn’t know him better he almost looks a bit… bashful?
Before I can look away, his eyes suddenly shift upwards and lock onto mine. His pupils are blown wide and there’s a tenderness, something so raw in his expression, that it holds me completely still. My breath stalls somewhere in my chest as an unmistakable flurry of warmth spreads down my belly. His lips part ever so slightly as his hesitant blue-eyed gaze travels downmy face, and a humiliating, shaky breath escapes me. Cursing my lungs for betraying me and failing to function normally, I quickly force my gaze downward, away from his.
The drumstick sits in our hands next to us, and I immediately notice his tight grip on it – the way his hand is clenched so fiercely around it. So hard I can see the bones of his knuckles pressing against his skin.
I take another careful breath, then glance over his shoulder.
