“I’m much better at this than I was last July.” “So I see.” He stays close, one hand on my waist as I walk the last part of the parapet. “In a fucking dress.” “It’s a skirt, actually,” I say over my shoulder, only feet away from the wall. “Eyes forward!” he grumbles, and it’s only the fear in his tone that keeps me from doing something arrogant like skipping the last few feet.
