2. Common Cause Failure
TWO
COMMON CAUSE FAILURE
Kaley
Evan Mitchell is a pain in my ass.
Quite literally as all one hundred and eighty-ish pounds of him pin me to the bottom of the inflatable surface with a few plastic balls wedged under my rear end.
However, once the initial shock of being body slammed wears off, my body turns traitor, taking note of all the places he’s pressed against me and that have heated up accordingly.
And instead of admonishing my female-specific anatomy for its unprofessional behavior, my brain decides to join the revolution by reminding me that Evan Mitchell’s accidental WWF take-down is the best action I’ve had since our post-date, panty-combusting kiss.
“Jesus.” Evan’s large, hot exhale caresses my neck. “You okay, Kaley?”
I manage a grunt.
“Just let me…” He tries and fails to lift himself off me. Instead, thanks to the unstable surface of the moon bounce, he ends up repeatedly pressing me against the balls underneath like he’s giving my ass the world’s most awkward trigger point massage.
“Hold”—I maneuver my hands under his shoulders—“still.”
Instantly he stops moving. “Sorry.” His voice is laced with guilt. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Gone is his normal charm and bravado, his voice sounding troubled.
“I’m fine.” My tone is sharper than it needs to be.
I feel his sigh along the entire length of my body.
Worried what else my body will start taking note of and reacting to, I draw my legs up until my socked-feet are braced against his thighs. Very firm, well-muscled thighs.
Jaw clenched, I focus on the bruise probably forming under my tailbone. “Ready?”
“For what?” His breath tickles my ear.
Ignoring my subsequent shiver, I don’t answer, concentrating on my next move. “One.”
His chest muscles flex under my hands. “Hey, wait.”
“Two.” I rock back, tucking my limbs as close to my body as possible.
His weight shifts, his whole body tensing. “What are you trying to?—”
“Three.” In one explosive motion, I rock forward, extending my legs and arms upward, lifting— launching —him off me and across the ball pit.
His grunt of surprise is louder than the kids’ squeals of delight.
* * *
“That. Was. Awesome .”
Having escaped the bouncy house and left Evan to his own devices, I manage a small smile at the little girl standing by the bouncy house entrance, whose eyes are lit up like her sparkling rubber clogs. “Thanks.”
She looks back toward the ball pit, and I follow, watching Evan maneuver around the chaos of children now in full swing as he slowly moves toward the exit.
Considering I launched him clear across the pit, he’s making good time—what with the jet pack that he had to stop and pick up clutched against his chest.
“Astronauts are so cool.”
I should clear up her assumption. Tell her that while I do, in fact, work at NASA—hence the patch on my shirt—I’m not actually an astronaut.
And neither is the systems engineer trying to charm a bunch of grade schoolers with an unsanctioned SAFER demonstration, just like he probably tries to charm all the women he dates.
And I might feel charmed if I wasn’t suddenly concerned with the breeze I feel along my backside.
Twisting my body, I try to see below my belt. And when that fails, I slide my hands down and?—
“Kaley, hold up!” Evan, having made it out with the jet pack unscathed, comes to a stop beside me. Panting, he lowers the pack to the ground, just as my fingertips graze skin.
My skin. My bare skin.
The little girl, ever helpful, points to where I’m touching, drawing Evan’s and everyone else’s attention. “You have a huge hole in your pants!”
Kill me now.