Page 42 of Wild About You
Finn is genuinely distraught as he looks from the sign to me, rubbing a hand over his head and bringing the other to rest on my shoulder. “I don’t know what that means, but it must be bad.”
“The worst!” I cry.
He sighs as he looks back to the Gate of Letdowns. Then his hand leaves my shoulder and he takes a step toward the course, expression turning more determined than defeated. He walks a few feet in one direction down the tall fence that lines the perimeter, then pivots to walk a few feet the other way. He eyes the fence and cranes his neck to peer into the space beyond it, where the course presumably stretches out under a dusky sky.
“You know what?” He turns to me, hands on hips. I meet his eyes warily. “I bet we can hop the fence.”
My head tips sideways as I try to determine if I heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, I thought you just suggested hopping the fence.”
“Yeah,” he says back.
“Breaking into the closed mini golf course.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You, Finn Markum, Mr. Leave No Trace, so rigid I’ve wondered once or twice if your spine could be used as a yardstick.”
His mouth forms a thoughtful sort of frown. “One could argue this is the best time to put the leave-no-trace principle to use.”
I find that I can’t disagree.
Chapter Sixteen
Moments later, I’m watching Finn’s especially fine backside stretch out its tight khaki confines as he hauls himself over a mini golf course fence. In way less time than I would’ve expected, his fingertips leave the top railing and he drops out of sight, the thud of his feet hitting the ground—at least I hope that’s what it is—the only sound I hear.
“Piece of cake,” he whispers a moment later from the other side.
My journey is not so simple. Granted, I’m lacking pants, Finn’s height, and his weirdly high enthusiasm for doing crime. But I’m certain I look ridiculous as I scrabble for purchase against the fence posts.
“Do you have Spider-Man’s sticky hands or something? How did you do this?” I grumble. My head is the only part of me on the other side, and I’m not sure the rest is gonna get there at this rate.
“Do you want my help?” he asks with obvious eagerness, his hands already reaching toward me.
“Obviously!”
“Give me your arm—no, like, reach all the way—there you go…”
Thus ensues the most awkward, fumbling sequence of grabbing, pulling, stretching, and ultimately falling the rest of the way over and completely on top of Finn. He lets out an oof on impact but fortunately, it isn’t followed by his skull connecting to the ground. His hands are gripping my waist as I lay splattered over most of his body, my skirt definitely tossed up enough to reveal my entire ass, but he won’t be able to see that from the tangle of my hair covering his face.
I reach back to pull my skirt down on instinct, then toss my hair over my shoulder and out of his rapidly blinking eyes. They connect with mine, and for a second, we’re in an absurd freeze-frame. Everything goes still, and it’s just our faces a breath apart, our hearts beating in matching staccato rhythm, the warmth caught between every inch of skin we have pressed together. It’s the creek swimming all over again but horizontal, and while we’re definitely more clothed, I feel much more exposed.
It’s the things he knows about me now, let alone the things he doesn’t—how aware I am of him, body and heart and soul, and how much I’ve grown to want it all. I think for a moment about kissing him, pressing my hands to his chest and scooting just a touch farther up so my lips could meet his. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.
Then the shoe drops. Literally, one of my new, thick-soled wedges chooses that moment to fall from my foot that has apparently been hovering over Finn’s shin, because when it lands, he sucks in a pained breath. That gets me moving, and not in the climbing-up-Finn’s-body direction.
“I would say I’m sorry,” I say, a little breathless as I try to stand without doing further damage, “but this was your idea, so.”
Finn sounds more winded than he ever has on the trail. “I accept your lack of apology.” I watch him stand and assess his injuries, then he flashes a crooked smile my way. “The mini show must go on now, right?”
My heart resumes its own fall over a metaphorical fence, at hyperspeed with no ground in sight.
Once inside the forbidden mini golf land’s borders, it seems everything else is ours for the taking. The small shed where we would check in and pick up balls, putters, and scorecards is unlocked and we have our pick of the loot. I take a glittery pink ball while Finn takes the rainbow polka dots, then we both grab clubs and are on our way.
The course is threaded through trees and shrubs that make it feel like we’re in our own little forested world far away from the hotel, but there are enough floodlights scattered about that we can still see clearly. We’re both comfortable enough with the seclusion to stop whispering, and I find my prior nerves about getting caught melt into excitement. Mini golf! With Finn!
“Break a leg,” he says as I line up my shot at hole one. “That’s theater speak for good luck.”
I look back at him with a warning in my eyes. “Let’s not push our luck on the breaking limbs thing tonight.”