Page 17 of Wait For Me

“So not nuts at all,” I say as I climb up after her.

“Nope.” Cora closes the hatch and twists the top closed.

“You ever considered working as a war correspondent?” I say as we run across the roof to the occupied side of the building.

“Not at all,” she laughs.

We run all the way across the rooftop to the roof access on the other side. I notice, in passing, how stunning the sunset is over the Quince. I wish we had time to sit up here and enjoy it.

I wish we had more time, period.

Cora has a key for this door too, which thankfully, over here, is an actual door, leading to a stairwell. “It’s universal,” she explains.

“My room,” I say inside the stairwell. “Just until they call off the search.”

“You committed crimes like this before, I see?” Cora says, panting now.

“Sort of,” I grin.

Cora wobbles when we hit the landing, wincing.

Concern shoots through me. “You okay?”

“It’s the stupid shoes.”

“Espadrilles weren’t meant for sprinting.”

Cora’s eyebrows fly up. “How do you know what these are called?”

“Ask me later,” I wink. I turn so my back is to her.

Cora jumps on. I hook my hands under her ass, closing my eyes for a moment to try to ignore the delicious feeling of her whole body pressed up against me, my fists pressed into her bottom. It’s a little awkward with my camera bags, but I’m not letting her go.

I hold her onto me as I push through the door and down the hallway to my room.

I don’t ever want to let her go.

CHAPTER 7

Cora

It’s not until we shut the door to his room and Tristan lowers me to my feet that we both explode in laughter. We slide to the floor, releasing all the tension of not just that chase but of the whole two hours before, creeping around the abandoned rooms of my workplace.

Finally, we wind down, our backs up against either side of the narrow entryway.

Our legs tangled together.

We seem to notice our closeness at the same time.

“That was fun,” I say, pulling my knees up and trying to ignore the heat spreading inside of me again. It’s the same electricity that spiked through me when we were holding hands back in the east wing. But now it’s lower.

Deeper.

Tristan doesn’t respond at first. His knees are raised already, his forearms resting on top, and he reaches across the space between us to hook two of his fingers into mine.

“You okay?” he asks. His voice is rough.

I nod.

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