Page 70 of Almost Ours

“Josh, be for real.”

“I am! You can’t walk. It’s only five minutes away.”

I look at the width of his shoulders beneath the black bomber jacket, then down at my leg. The ache has dulled, but there’s still a tight pull through the back of my thigh.

“Rubes.” He tuts. “Get on with it.”

“Alright, alright.” I move in behind him and place both hands on his shoulders. Heat pushes through the jacket into my palms, and when I lift my left leg, his hand slides around the back of my thigh to guide it over his hip before he reaches for the other.

My breath hitches in my throat, and I fight to be normal about this.

“Ready?”

“No!”

He stands before I’ve finished answering, making me yelp and clamp my arms around his shoulders. My breasts press against his back, my cheek nearly knocking into the side of his head, and his hands slide under my thighs to hold me up, long fingers spread wide against the backs of my legs.

From up here, the ground looks very, very far away. “Christ, you’re tall!”

A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Are you only just realising?”

“Well, no! But it feels a bit different now I can see over the tops of buildings!”

“You’re a bit of a diva, aren’t you?” He starts walking, adjusting his grip beneath my thighs when I slip lower against his back. “I’m gonna drop you off at halls and then circle back for your phone. Is that okay?”

I’d completely forgotten about my phone. My head turns towards the club behind us, where the music is pounding away. “Shit.”

“You forgot Brooke has it?”

“I’ve been a little distracted.” I sheepishly admit.

Josh tilts his head and I catch the edge of his smile. “Only a bit.”

I rest my chin against his shoulder and look past the side of his face as we cross the road, the streetlights making everything glow orange and hazy. “This is the second time you’ve rescued me.”

“Twice in two weeks. It’s going to make for an interesting year.”

I smile against the shoulder of his jacket. “You say that as though I’m going to keep needing your help.”

“You got attacked by a swan and trapped in a toilet window within, like, eight days.”

“Bernardo did not attack me.”

“He was coming for both of us.”

“He was coming for you.”

“All three of us were going to die that night.”

“Now who is being dramatic?” I scoff. “And this wasn’t an emergency.”

“You were hanging out of a building.”

“I was halfway to freedom.”

“You were halfway to a head injury.”

I tighten my arms around his shoulders when he steps off the kerb, my body lifting slightly against his back before settling again as he crosses the road. His hands adjust beneath my thighs at the change in level, thumbs pressing into the backs of my legs through my tights, and I have to focus very hard on the glowing orange pavement ahead instead of the fact I can feel every movement of his fingers.