Page 14 of Callan

“You think it’s perfect, huh? Watch it become a weapon and your worst nightmare when I get my hands on you. Stop snapping pictures of me,” he barks, and I laugh, not stopping.

“Shhh…” I tease. “You stop doing that, or the scorned husband will hear you and come here to whoop your ass.”

“The only one getting their ass whooped will be you,” he says before the miracle happens.

The man, who is clearly the beneficiary of some rare athletic genes, rips his hand away from the upstairs balcony––he’s legit crazy––and walks like an Olympic gymnast on the narrow metal bar, keeping his balance like a pro.

I’m horrified at the idea that his boot might slip on the icy slab of metal, and I might stare at the chalk outline of his body on the sidewalk.

“You are not doing this,” I say, lowering my phone and watching him on the balustrade, hands in the air, snow gently brushing over his bare chest.

Isn’t he cold?

I sure am, my teeth chattering.

The last ounce of self-preservation in my body shouts at me to run inside, lock the door, and let him find his way out.

He’s not my business anymore.

He can climb down whichever way he wants and vanish into the night.

At any rate, the woman upstairs has no qualms about him getting frozen to death or smooshed against the pavement.

Why would I care?

He says nothing to my words, focused solely on finding the right spot to stick his landing.

He’s getting closer and closer, and at the last moment, I sort of realize he has a good chance to accomplish what he’s set his mind to.

Fuck.

I jolt out of my paralysis while watching him lose his balance, cuss like a sailor, and jerk his arms up as his feet slip.

My first thought is that his package will meet the cold metal first and his chances of producing offspring will be greatly reduced, but then my focus is solely on my well being.

Through some Christmasy miracle he has enough common sense to jerk his body slightly left, heading in my direction.

A shriek of surprise shoots up my throat when the big bad man morphs into a limber feline and jumps in the middle of the balcony, using me as a landing mat.

It’s become unavoidable if you ask me.

Instead of standing here and watching him vault onto my balcony, I should’ve retreated when my instincts told me to.

His strong arms wrap around me in an attempt to protect me––I like to believe––before pulling me down with him.

It was that or getting crushed under his body.

This way, he executes a pirouette at the last moment before we both crash, his back meeting the snow-covered concrete while I end up on his chest like a pin stuck to a pin cushion.

My survival instincts kick in, and a fight ensues, mainly fueled, on my part, by confusion, guilt, and the unresolved sexual tension that hasn’t left my body since last year.

He doesn’t let go of me, and that truly puts me in a fighting mode.

“Get off me,” I say, my words met with cynical laugher.

“You sit on me, Cupcake. You get off me.”

I wish I could, but he has no intention of releasing me.

---