Page 42 of Rapunzel Is Losing It

My first clue towards the ice cream was ‘nice view’ which didn’t exactly help, because every room at the back of the house overlooked the backyard and the Charles river just behind it.

“What do you want me to make you?” I asked halfway to the craft station. The rum buzzed through my limbs just enough to make launching myself through the air a little easier. At least for me. Probably also thanks to the last shreds of my meds still coursing through my system. Those had the rum pumping through my veins at a hundred miles per hour.

“I can’t tell you. You have to come up with the idea.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of the fun.”

I crinkled my nose at him while balancing with both feet on a bar stool from the kitchen. I had to lower myself onto it before I’d be able to step onto the next chair, so my voice came out like a grunt when I said: “I don’t know why you think I’m not having fun. I’m having loads of fun. All the time.”

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met,” he replied dryly.

“Enlighten me then,” I huffed, clinging to the stool while the tippiest tips of my toes stretched for the next chair’s backrest, just to turn it a bit.

“You’ve been holding back since last year, since I killed Julian Beckett in your kitchen.”

My hands slipped. The stool capsized. My toes were still caught on the next chair’s backrest, when my world tilted sideways and I crashed to the floor. A sharp bolt shot up my tailbone. Then the stupid stool smashed into my shoulder before clattering to the floor, leaving a dull pain in its wake that promised a humongous bruise. “Ow.” I grunted.

Victor’s hands were on me before I could fully process the fall. He pressed his fingertips into my wrists and my knuckles, checking for broken bones, when my ass had really taken the brunt of it. “Alright?” he asked, no time for the whole sentence.

“Alright,” I replied, letting my hands go limp in his, soaking up the warmth of every touch. “And my feet technically didn’t touch the ground.”

“Hmm?”

I nodded at the one foot still on the chair, and my other slung over my lap. “My feet don't touch the ground. I don’t lose any ice cream toppings.”

He laughed. An actual Victor laugh. I had heard that sound only a handful of times over the years, and it was the best thing in the world. Completely husky, rumbling from his chest like a rockslide. “You’re right.”

“I might need help getting up though. Is that allowed?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” I said but when his arm came around my shoulder, pain flared back up and I shrank away with a hiss.

“You’re not alright.”

“It’ll bruise. It’s fine.”

“Get up. I’ll have a look at it.”

“I’m not getting up. My feet will not touch the ground.”

“I’m not playing, Cordelia.”

“Well, I am. For glory. Until the bitter end.” I stuck my tongue out at him. He could watch me have some fun. I would not give up my rainbow sprinkles over a technicality.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed and grabbed my foot off my lap. In a singular swift move, Victor lowered himself with his back to me, and wrapped both my legs around his middle. “Good arm,” he commanded and I gave it to him. He hooked it around his neck at a precise angle, then shot off the ground.

I let out a banshee-worthy squeal. Undeterred, Victor’s steel grip closed around my crossed ankles, and my elbow, locking me onto his back.

Piggyback ride.

The term swam somewhere in the back of my brain among other words I hadn’t had use for in almost 20 years.

Only that my idea of a piggyback ride and this didn’t correlate. Not when my skirt pushed up against my hips. Not when my thighs choked his hips until his belt loops would leave lasting grooves. Not when my nose pressed into his shoulder and his earthy scent coated my nerves like syrup.

“Here you go.”

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