Page 44 of Racing Hearts

Our lips touch. Heat ignites between us, so sudden that I startle backward.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer out. “That was so unprofessional of—”

Adrian’s expression cuts me off, hunger in his eyes. I go silent as my legs loosen, like my knees have been replaced with mousse.

In slow motion, he lowers toward me until his breath warms my temple. He squeezes a hand to my cheek, fingertips pressing into the back of my head. His other hand follows, framing my face. I tip my chin higher. Adrian leans in until his lips touch mine, a kiss that’s gentle but firm. My lips part for his tongue. Our bodies flatten together, drawing heat across my chest.

My hands coil around his shoulders, tugging him yet closer. He responds to my touch with equal energy, fingers crushing my braid to the back of my head. Desire rolls through me. One of my hands circles his arm, my fingers notching into the indent of his triceps. He flexes under my touch.

I sigh and this seems to unlock something else inside him. With one motion, he lifts me up and sits me on the railing. My legs curl around his torso. I press myself into the warmth of his body, slotting into him like a puzzle piece clicking into place. His heart hammers at my collar bone.

The railing groans. I tug him toward me, like I can’t get him close enough, and he meets my urgency with his own, pressing harder into our embrace. Holding me tighter. I bite on his lip and he moans. I try to silence him with another kiss, tight against his lips.

But then he’s trailing a hand up my shirt, leaving fire everywhere he touches, and I can’t care about how much noise we are making or which of Mom’s neighbors might hear. I arch my back into his hand, relishing the feel of his skin against mine, my head falling back—

The railing shifts. I nearly topple backward. I clutch at Adrian instead. He shoots his arms out to catch me, but loses purchase. We both tumble onto the steps in a heavy, crumpling echo.

A porch light clicks on, bathing us both in a harsh illumination.

“Kath?” Mom’s voice filters outside.

The kiss is still jamming up my throat. “Yes! Mom, it’s me. Everything is fine!”

“Are you reorganizing the patio furniture again?”

I try to push myself backward from my awkward position, now straddling Adrian—one of his legs underneath me the other splayed out onto the stair above us.

“Sorry,” I call out. “I dropped something. I’ll be right in.”

Untangling myself from Adrian’s limbs, I find my way to my uneasy legs. I fumble for my discarded bag, and hug it to my chest, like it could slow the erratic beats of my heart. Adrian slings himself upright, looking decidedly less rumpled than I feel.

Regret fills the empty space that now hangs between us. Coach. I just made out with a coach. How am I supposed to look him in the eye the next time he reads out my splits? The wind chimes peal around us, discordant and harsh, like they are judging us, too.

“I should go,” I say, motioning to the door, looking anywhere but his eyes. His chin. I can handle his chin.

The chin nods.

“Okay, then.” Adrian’s voice is low and rough.

“Goodnight,” I say.

Without waiting for a response, I flee to the door and let it thunk closed behind me.

Fourteen

56 Days Until Pan Ams

“You don’t look tired,” Sofi says. Via FaceTime, she’s been circling me like a vulture stalking a wounded hamster. She can definitely tell something happened between me and Adrian last night. And she’s trying to bleed it out of me, drop by painful drop. “You look all…ruddy.”

“What do you mean, ruddy?”

“I don’t know. Dewy. Like you’ve been wearing eye masks or something. Have you finally started moisturizing?”

“No,” I say. “But I did drink about a gallon of water this morning.”

I’ve been trying to drown out the regret. That, and make up for last night’s lost recovery time. I’m sure it hasn’t been enough, though. Not only did I stay up past my bedtime by a full half hour, but I also missed at least twelve ounces of water from my hydration log. Maybe what I should do is recreate the epic smoothie I have in the training center on my make-or-break recovery days.

Sofi snaps her fingers as I pad down the stairs toward the kitchen. “It’s your eyes,” she says. “Usually they’re puffy in the morning.”