Luckily, Amanda doesn’t see, and I subtly scratch my neck before waving him off, giving him the we’ll talk later look.
That earns me a shit-eating grin, and then he nods down at where Meadow is still snapping away, telling me without words that he’s got stories to share, too.
Seems we’ve all been busy since the pile-up.
“Squads twenty through forty-five may now begin their climbs,” a voice booms over the loudspeaker, and Amanda glances down at the bib we picked up when we first entered the stadium, the number thirty-seven staring back at her.
“Ah, shit,” she groans, eyes finding me next. “That’s us.”
I chuckle, pulling her under my arm and giving her a playful noogie as I tug her toward section one-forty-nine where we’ll be doing our climb. “Come on. I’ll carry you if you get too tired.”
“Pshh, like you could.” She gestures to her body with a sweep of her hands. “This girl’s got a lot of junk in the trunk, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
I lean in closer, whispering in her ear. “Oh, trust me,” I tease, noting the way chills break on her skin at the touch of my breath. “I’ve noticed.”
Then, without warning, I pick her up like a sack of potatoes, throw her over my shoulder, and take off running across the field with her squealing and laughing the entire way.
AMANDA
I’m going to die.
My legs are going to spontaneously combust into a roaring fire of hell and take me down with them.
This is it. This is how it ends.
“You’re not going to die,” Greg says on a laugh, jogging to catch up with me.
Brat.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“You’ve been saying it out loud. For about the last three climbs.”
I pause, hanging one hand on my hip and wiping away the sweat on my forehead with the other. I grimace at the sight of my slick wrist after wiping it on my leggings. “How much longer do we have?”
“You can quit whenever you want,” Greg says with a shrug. “Our donors will pay a certain amount per step.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t quit.”
As if I walked right into his trap, Greg smirks, stepping up onto the stair I paused on. His chest brushes against mine, sweat dripping down his hairline and over the edges of his jaw as he looks down at me.
“Atta girl,” he purrs.
His voice is low and seductive, lips curling into an even wider grin when my eyelids flutter from him being so near. I swallow, trying to find the words to tell him to put more space between us, or the strength to do it myself.
But I can’t.
I just stand there looking up at him, leaning into him, wanting more of him pressed against me.
All the burn in my legs is forgotten, replaced with an ache in a very different region.
Then, Greg steps back, making me sway a bit forward with the loss of his heat.
And the motherfucker smacks my ass.
“Greg!” I howl, already chasing after him as he flies up the stadium stairs laughing, weaving in and out of innocent bystanders trying to survive their own torture.
I follow his lead, muttering excuse me’s to those I pass as I furrow my brow in determination.
He must slow down, must take pity on me, because I somehow manage to catch up to him. I wind my hand back, ready to smack him on the ass and give him a taste of his own medicine.
I’m so focused on that Adonis ass of his that I’m not paying attention to where I’m stepping, and I miscalculate, the very tip of my toe hitting the edge of the stair instead of the middle.
I gasp, sneaker sliding off the edge without a prayer of grip, and the last thing I see before I start tumbling down is Greg’s wide eyes as he launches to try to catch me.
It’s too late.
I fly forward, closing my eyes and throwing my hands out to brace myself for impact.
But instead of concrete, I slam into rock hard, sweaty biceps.
“Whoa, whoa,” he says. “Easy there.”
I’m gripping those massive biceps like they’re my only lifeline, panting hard for a long moment before I’m brave enough to peek one eye open, and then the other. Massive hands hold me steady in their grip, and I’m now face-level with a set of pecs that could rival Thor and an eight-pack of abs that could only be carved by never having a carb in one’s life.
I frown.
Wait, Greg wasn’t shirtless…
My eyes trail up the torso, and I’m met with an amused smirk.
But not the familiar one I’ve come to love from Greg.
The man holding me has tussled brown hair, lighter and longer than Greg’s, his eyes a piercing blue rather than a warm brown. He’s absolutely colossal, tall and imposing in every way as he rights me, his hands still firm on my arms.