When his hand reappeared, it was holding a disposable camera, and it took my detoured mind a second to register that Sean had probably brought it along to commemorate this Day of Dares.

“Let’s take a photo, shall we? No one will believe it otherwise—you, out on a Wednesday.” He scoffed.

We hiked back to the overlook and posed beside Lover’s Leap, Sean holding the camera at arm’s length as the two of us grinned, the moment captured.

“Did you get our T-shirts in the picture?” I asked.

“Hard to say. Why don’t I get one of just you and your shirt? Then we can stop off at Hippie Hollow and get one of you without it,” he teased with a wicked smile.

I posed, framing the white words emblazoned on my chest like a handsy spokesmodel, and he snapped a second picture. “One more,” I insisted. I extended my hand for the camera. “It’s possible you’re the first man to climb to the top of Mount Bonnell, skirts fluttering. Doubtful, but possible.”

Handing over the camera with a grin, he was quick to pose with his hands on hips and a rakish gleam in his eye. Hoping Sean wouldn’t notice, or at the very least wouldn’t comment on it, I stole a second behind the camera to marvel at this latest surreal moment in my once-predictable life.

Coming back to stand beside me and slide the little twenty-four-shot camera back from whence it came, Sean ever so casually suggested, “How about I race you to the bottom.”

He wasn’t joking. In two seconds I was scrabbling over limestone, heading downhill, making for the path in lieu of the stairs. I left Sean in a white puff of dust, his hand still in his pouch.

My grin was imperturbable as I navigated the path, dodging live oaks and ducking around the curves, skidding on gravel and getting hung up for a nervy eternity by an older couple meandering downhill with walking sticks and single-minded determination. But mere seconds had passed when I glimpsed the blacktop—the far edge of roadside parking at the bottom of the hill—and only seconds stood between me and victory.

And then I was there, my feet skimming off the slippery gravel and onto the tar black ...

And then lifting, spinning in the air in a dizzying swirl that had my adrenaline bubbling over and my stomach plummeting in panic.

The thrill of victory crashed into defeat as I realized Sean was below me, around me, everywhere: He’d beat me to the bottom.

“Trounced you fair and square, darling, despite your head start and the slight disadvantage of my regalia.” Our makeshift whirligig had finally slowed to a stop, and Sean was making no move to let go.

“If I could think of a way you could have cheated, I’d accuse you. But since I can’t ... congratulations.” I admit it—I’m a bad sport. But for God’s sake, the man was wearing a skirt!

“Come on. That was hardly sincere. And while we didn’t wager, I think I’ve earned a prize. One kiss,” he demanded quietly, a single eyebrow raised in yet another challenge.

I let my shoulders slump slightly in defeat and puffed out a sigh. “Fine.” And while he slid me down the length of his body, letting the tips of my toes settle on the blacktop, I kept my arms twined tight around his neck and tipped his head down for a kiss.

As usual, it sprang out of my control, pulling at me, twisting inside me, urging me to indulge, to steal this shady roadside moment under the twittering trees and careless clear spring sky. I’d meant to skim my lips over his and leave it at that, but within seconds I was nipping and sliding my tongue along the seam of the lips that had taunted me mercilessly for going on four days now. I heard the hum and roar of cars on the road, and Sean shifted, shielding me from passersby or possibly distraction, and I let myself let go and fell into him, swooping and sailing, my own little “lover’s leap.”

Practice for tonight. Possibly.


With his breathing distinctly hitched, Sean casually suggested a rematch. I suspected his motives were ulterior. I politely declined and we climbed back onto the bike. As we glided down the winding, bumpy roads back into the city, it was clear—at least to me—that things between us had shifted. Into considerably more dangerous territory.

We made a quick stop at the drugstore to load up on sunscreen, despite my suspicions that I was at greater risk alone with Sean than at the mercy of the afternoon sun, and I took advantage of the moments alone to check my messages. I ignored the voice mails—it was likely they were work-related—and focused on the single text:

Mssg from Beck: Strip Truth or Dare?

Well, someone had a one-track mind. Although, in her defense, it wasn’t a horrible idea. Knowing Sean, he’d take the dares and get bored quickly. I’d take truth and he’d know way more than he cared to in under thirty minutes. Tucking my phone away, I just happened to look up and notice Sean snapping a photo of me astride his dark, glossy bike. I couldn’t even imagine my expression: Had I been picturing him naked or bored?

Now that I’d somewhat overcome my fears (I was not so much a limp pudding skin as a living, breathing pudding skin), I was urgently conscious of the fact that I was draped over a very sexy, very ripped man with an accent. It was a tingling ride south on Mopac, over the river and along the shaded, serpentine curves of Barton Springs Road, and it was over before I wanted it to end—shocker, I know. With both of us still playing strong, silent types, we pushed our rented canoe away from the creek bank and paddled out onto Lady Bird Lake.

I’d vetoed the proposed chilly dip into Barton Springs Pool, so with a couple of hours to kill before sunset, Sean insisted that I dump my oar in the belly of the canoe, sit facing him, and soak up the chivalry. It was all I could do not to stare at the man, captaining a canoe in a kilt, his skirts draped suggestively. Thank God for dark sunglasses and a little privacy for roving eyes.

When we’d slid out of the shade and into the full-on, glittering impact of the lake, I pulled out the sunblock, smearing it liberally on the pair of us. And then we just floated, beside a city at work. On a Wednesday.

Shading my eyes against the glare, I peeked at Sean, who seemed perfectly content to paddle us up and down the river with a single oar. “It’s so peaceful. Even crossing over the bridge every day, I forget how nice it is to come down here and just laze about. It’s been years since I’ve been in a canoe.”

Sean smiled and asked, “Was your boss very upset that you dodged out?”

“Hard to say. I left a voice mail, and I haven’t checked my messages.” Except for Beck’s.

“Do you imagine he’ll be upset?” The question was fuzzy and faraway sounding. The rhythmic lap of the oar on the lake was lulling me into a pleasure-filled haze.

“Maybe not today ... but soon enough.” I almost had the urge to giggle.

The rhythm slowed. “You’ve lost me,” Sean said.

Closing my eyes, I tipped my head back and let the sunbeams dance over my face, let my thoughts play with possibilities. Dragonflies buzzed into the silence, and eventually I came back to myself. “I’m considering switching jobs. Maybe.”

“Why is that?”

“I’d thought to stick it out, hold out for management.” I was skimming the tips of my fingers through the water. “But I’m not so gung-ho anymore.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily peg you as management material.”

My eyes flashed open and my spine immediately abandoned its comfortable slump for a defensive, ramrod posture. The canoe rocked with the sudden movement.

“Before you settle into your grudge, you might hear me out.”

I was a fair person. He had a right to have his say before I tore into him.

“You’re relatively shy and rather intimidatingly competent with, I imagine, a desire to get your hands dirty. I suspect a management position would smother your sparkle with office politics and general tedium.” His eyebrow winged up, as if to say, “Fair enough?”

The fledgling grudge, hanging in the air between us, ready to do its worst, dissipated into nothingness. And I found myself with nothing left to say. I was used to people trashing The Plan; I was not used to people couching their objections in candid compliments.

“What’s the other job?” Good to know he wasn’t a gloater.

“It’s in failure analysis. Basically I’d be deprocessing the micro-controllers that fail in customer applications, then pinpointing where a failure occurred and how we can screen for it in production. Solid engineering work rather than the babysitting I’ve been doing. I’d have a new boss, a clean slate. And I’d get trained on all these cool machines ...” Out here, floating on the murky water with my cell phone switched off and responsibility far away, it was all starting to sound very nice indeed.

“So what’s the vote—pro versus con?” Sean asked. I flipped my sunglasses up to squint at him in disbelief. What a seriously mind-boggling turn of events. I rallied.

“I haven’t formally tallied things up, but there’s at least one con—a biggie. The whole point of getting my MBA was to get into management. And if I switch jobs now, it’ll be a considerable setback for my career. Not to mention The Plan,” I mumbled.

“What plan is that?”

I looked up at him, calmly rowing, passing the oar from one hand to the other, patently curious. Tipping my head down to stare at the puddle of lake water in the belly of the canoe, I told him.

“I’ve had my life pretty well mapped out since I was around thirteen years old. There’ve been a few changes here and there, but generally speaking, I’m on track.”

“I’d wager I was a surprise,” he interrupted, dimpling.