“Time’s almost out!” Hamza says.

I start to see something. Something that my head tipping, eye squinting, gradually reveals.

“Wheelbarrow!” I scream.

Jamie spikes the marker, a receiver who just caught my answer for the touchdown. Then he crosses the space and crushes his mouth to mine.

I gasp against his lips as he hoists me up and wraps my thighs around his waist.

“Hey!” Christopher calls. “Get a room!”

“Gladly,” Jamie says, half laugh, half growl as he kisses me harder. Laughter and jeers fill the room, but I barely hear them as his hands slide up my thighs, sinking into my skin. He walks us into the shadows of the hallway and pins me to the wall.

“That was the worst wheelbarrow I’ve seen in my entire life.”

His hands drift higher until his touch slips beneath my dress and curves around my ass. “I’m sorry,” he groans. “I shouldn’t take it this far—”

“Not complaining.” I run my hands up his solid arms, feeling every muscle flex as he holds me. “Definitely not complaining.”

“I thought it was the tequila,” he says after a deep, long kiss, “but I’m drunk on victory. Adrenaline. Endorphins. Lots of them.”

“Me, too,” I whisper, leaning back, offering him my throat.

Someone thinks they’re funny and puts Barry White on the sound system, as a fresh wave of laughter breaks through our haze. I stare up at Jamie, breath sawing sharply in and out of our lungs. “Jamie?”

His eyes are on my mouth, heat high on his cheeks. “Yes, Bea.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Reality hovers at the fringes of my thoughts, but I push it away. We’re only supposed to do this in front of an audience. To pretend, ham it up, lure the meddlers into our trap. But I don’t want to think about them right now. I don’t want them to watch what I want next.

Jamie kisses me one more time, then sets me down. “Let’s.”

Maybe it’s the tequila or our Pictionary victory, but I’m all shaky limbs and nervous laughter. Jamie slides my coat up my arms, sets his messenger bag across his body, then bends and throws me over his shoulder, whipping open the door.

“Where are you going?” Jules yells.

“Getting that room you told us to!” he calls back before he slams the door shut behind us.

“Wow.” I have a great view of his butt as Jamie carries me down the steps. “You’re fit, aren’t you? How often do you exercise?”

“Nearly every day.”

“Geez, James!”

Jamie tightens his grip on my legs. “Exercising helps.”

“Helps what? Oof. I need to be upright. Sangria and tequila need gravity on their side to stay put.”