My foot slips, and the rope tugs again.
Sloane covers her mouth, eyes widening. “You should climb back up. Stop worrying about the Jeep.”
“Nope, I’m down here. This is getting done.”
That’s when the first raindrop hits my face. Wet and cold.
Shit.
“Got to run this line uphill,” I call. Got to get this right.
Her forehead knits, lips pressed tightly together. “Hold that thought.”
She disappears.
Thank God. One less thing to worry about.
I find the free-spool lever buried beneath mud and start pulling line. I steady myself with the rope using my other hand. My boots work against me, losing traction. I shove my toes into the mud, beginning to scale back up.
Then, I hear it plain as day. “Okay, I’m coming down.”
“No, you aren’t.”
Too late, she’s already over the edge.
“Stop.”
My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “One wrong step and you’re not walking back up.”
I watch her footing give along the steep slope, hands reaching for the line I hold. One rope between us. A shared lifeline.
“Go back!” I bark.
She’s too busy balancing to answer. She clings to it, one hand gripping tight, the other clawing into red clay, grabbing at brush and saplings to slow her descent. Soon, both hands work the side of the hill, more a controlled fall than a climb down.
She lands against me hard, knocking the wind out of my chest. The rope pulls tight, then groans.
“God,” she gasps, trying to straighten, nearly falling past me. But I wrap my arm around her waist, pressing her tight against me.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I growl against her ear. Her body melts into me, her breath coming faster.
“That wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” she gasps, glancing over her shoulder at me. Our mouths are so close, we’re breathing the same air. Her cheeks flush, eyes wild.
“What in the hell were you thinking?” I grunt, steadying her against me.
Drops pitter-patter around us, wetting our cheeks and hair. Clouds darken overhead, an angry swirl.
“Keys,” she says on another pant, reaching into her pocket and holding them up before replacing them. “Engine has to be on for the winch to work.”
“Yeah, once we start winching. That’s step four,” I say. “We’re still on one through three.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“Unspooling, running, and attaching the line.”
“Oh,” she says, cheeks burning.
I lean in too close—close enough to feel the heat of her skin—and catch myself before it goes any further.
