A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(4)

My grip quickly becomes sweaty, and the thin metal gutter guard creaks again, this time shifting under my weight.

I gulp, fighting back the tears burning my eyes.

“Come on, come on, come on, be quick about it. I give you two minutes before the gutter gives out and you land on the concrete, probably splitting your head open,” the angry voice charitably points out. “But don’t take my word for it—it’s just a guess.”

“Would you shush? Please,” I plead down over my shoulder, polite to the core even as I dangle from the side of a house.

“Okay, it’s your funeral,” I hear the guy grumble. “Literally.”

Suddenly panicky, not wanting my lifeline to walk away, I gasp when the wooden siding creaks again. “Wait!” I shout with a tremble. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry! Just please, tell me what to do.”

“Alright, calm down. I’m going to come stand underneath you, and when I do, let your hands slide from the window ledge and I’ll catch you.” I can hear his feet kicking up the wobbly concrete somewhere beneath me.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I whine. “I can’t do this.”

I would rather shrivel up and die, then have my dead, lifeless body shrivel up and die again. I cannot do this.

“Yes you can. Stop being a little pansy. Ready? On my count of three, release your hands. Ready?”

No! No! No!

“One… twooo…”

At his count, I squeeze my eyes shut, release my hands from the side of the building, and fall faster than I can blink. I’m plummeting, dropping, landing with a thud. I think I’m tumbling to the ground, but I’m not. I-I’m lying on a huge, hulky, solid, warm-blooded male form.

A solid male form that’s now sprawled out on the pavement beneath me, spread eagle and muttering a curse. “What the everloving f*ck was that? I said on the count of three!”

It takes me a few seconds to acclimate myself, and I lie there on top of this new source of warmth. My head goes down, and with the wind still knocked out of me, I rest my cheek on the stranger’s comfy sweatshirt, nuzzling the padded torso without thinking twice.

So, so comfy.

Like a big, comfy bear. Like the big, comfy teddy bears at Costco. Mmmm. Aren’t they only fifty dollars? I want one of those.

I hear a heart beating erratically, likely from the traumatic force of being knocked on one’s ass, and exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

A low, displeased rumble emits from deep within the stranger’s chest.

It’s enough to rouse me from my shell-shocked stupor. Lifting my drooping head from the broad, muscular body I’m lying limply on top of, my out-of-focus gaze searches out the face of the guy who could very well have just saved my life.

We lock eyes and I manage to blink.

Sweet Jesus is he scary.

And he’s glaring up at me.





Caleb

The girl and I lock eyes, but I finally manage to blink.

“Can you get off me?” I mutter, trying to pull myself up on my elbows—no easy task with this chick bedding down on top of me. She’s clearly delirious.

“Can you please get off me,” I repeat, giving her a nudge. “No offense, but you’re no lightweight.”

It’s a lie, but I want her off me, like, yesterday. She’s getting way too comfortable, feels way too soft and warm and pliant, and I’m beginning not to mind.

“I… excuse me. Oh my god.” The brunette stumbles over her words, a furious blush reddening her face. I suppress a laugh at how hastily she goes from snuggling on top of me in what’s obviously a confused, concussed haze, to pushing back on my chest—briefly cutting off my air supply, I might add—and rising to her feet, all within seconds.

She stumbles a bit then rights herself.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” I challenge her with an arched brow, glaring up from under the brim of my hat, a whole catalog of first impressions imprinting themselves on my brain now that I’m getting a look at her.

First of all, she is adorable. Flushed. Embarrassed.

Pretty.

Her thick, dark coffee-colored hair, which had obviously been piled haphazardly on the top of her head at one point, is now in a messy rat’s nest. Huge chunks of soft waves have escaped the knot to rest lightly upon her slight shoulders and cascade loosely down her back.

Straight nose. Full mouth with a slightly pouty bottom lip.

Her complexion is clear, and radiates a blush—either from her recent fall off the second story, or from being ashamed. Probably a bit of both.

Large, expressive blue eyes stare down at me from under perfectly arched eyebrows, and I quickly avoid her scrutiny by glancing up to the window from whence she emerged. For a moment, I’m envious of the Kappa Omega Chi f*cktard who just spent the night with her, although quite frankly, she looks far too wholesome to be a quick lay.

Na?ve. Innocent. No freaking way could she have been in that house having her brains screwed out all night.

I squash the thought back because facts are facts, and the indisputable proof stares down at me as I continue my appraisal.

Second, she’s not short.

Even from down on the ground, I can tell that when I stand, I might tower over her with my six foot three frame, but it won’t be by much. Her short-sleeved, fitted black tee shirt is tucked into belted skinny jeans, elongating a pair of long, athletic legs. Her tight, dark jeans are neatly tucked into a pair of tall, shiny equestrian boots all the girls are wearing these days.