and wolf-whistling and clapping for me, and I take on the next obstacle, a series of metal bars. I have to hoist myself up with my feet before I can get up, but I do so only because I want it bad. I’m determined to get this shit done.
I cross the finish line before Marta, and Luke is there, grinning at me. He gives me a high five and pulls me into a celebratory hug. “How the fuck did you do that, beast?”
I reach up and tug on his hat, yanking it off his head. All that messy dark hair is gone, as is the beard. He’s . . . clean. And just as hot as ever. “Nice buzz,” I say as he swipes his hand through it.
I start to walk toward where our next clue is, but he stops me, and when he does I follow his finger and realize that I have a tear in my cargo pants and I’m bleeding. I roll up the fabric to reveal a huge gash on my shin, and the blood is running down into my sock and boot. I don’t think I’ve had an injury like that, ever.
“Let’s have medical look at that.”
I peer over at Ace, who’s trash-talking Marta through the rest of the obstacle course. “No. We’ve got to go now. Let’s go.”
He takes my hand, and we grab the next clue. We don’t bother to change into new clothes. We grab our bags and get the first cab. I rip open the envelope and read, then gasp breathlessly to the driver, “We’ve got to get to someplace called Julian. Please. As quick as you can.”
“Julian? What do we got to do there?” Luke asks me as I check to see if any of the other teams are coming.
I shrug. “It doesn’t say.” I lean over and ask the driver how long of a ride it is, and he tells me it’s about an hour into the San Diego mountains. I sit back, feeling wired and restless but most of all . . . pumped. “Did you see me?”
Luke motions to my leg. I lift it up onto his knee as he says, “Yeah, I saw you, killer. What, you gonna give up your French poetry and become a marine now, Dr. Cross?”
I shrug happily. “Maybe.”
He laughs and carefully and methodically rolls up the fabric of the pants, his gentleness so uncharacteristic of his big hands. He reaches into his pack and pulls out the medical kit they gave us at the beginning of the race. He opens up an antiseptic wipe packet with his teeth, shakes it out, and applies it to the cut. I squirm a little. “Hurt?” he asks.
I shake my head. One of his hands is tending to the cut on my shin, but the other is on my bare knee, so warm and solid, and I can feel his calluses on my skin. I can feel his touch drawing up the goose bumps, making every nerve ending come alive. When he’s done cleaning the wound, he dips his head and very softly blows on my skin.
Those goose bumps start to sizzle, and when he raises his head, he’s smiling just a little hint of a devilish smile, like he knows he’s gotten to me by the way the electricity is practically zinging off my body. Like he knows that every sexual organ in my body is aching for him.
It’s the adrenaline, I tell myself.
But that’s a lie. Because I’ve felt this before, and it didn’t take an obstacle course to do it.
The gash isn’t so bad once it’s cleaned. The bleeding has nearly stopped. He applies cream and an extra-large bandage. “You’ll be all right, killer. You tired?”
I look down at myself. Somehow, for someone who didn’t fall in the mud once, I’m covered in sweat and dirty and muddy and probably look gross. Not to mention that neither of us has showered since Boston, which was four days ago. There’s only so much that quick cleanups in airport bathrooms can do for a person. “Exhausted. What are the chances that we’ll be able to sleep in a real bed tonight, with an actual bathroom we can shower in?”
He fixes me with a lazy smile. “Is that an invitation?”
I blush and start to move my leg off his knee, but he doesn’t let me at first. He strokes his thumb lightly over my knee, up my thigh. I like it.