Born to Be Wild by Donna Kauffman Page A

wake he created in the hip-high grass, trying to ignore the melancholy feeling that accompanied this most recent reminder of just how incompatible they were. It went beyond his day-at-a-time attitude and her need for long-term responsibility, beyond his endless search for the ultimate thrill and her need to establish stability.
    Oh, what the hell, she thought in disgust. If she got any more involved with him, fear of losing life or limb would probably keep her from going on half the dates he’d plan anyway, so worrying about the big picture was probably premature.
    A young blond man met them about ten yards from one of the thick ropes anchoring down the balloon. “Hi, I’m Scotty!” He took the cooler from Zach and flashed her a smile that would have put the entire Osmond clan to shame. “You must be Dara,” he said, putting the cooler down long enough to give her a brisk handshake.
    Scotty’s exuberance was a tangible thing—probably the result of an overdeveloped adrenal gland—but contagious nonetheless.
    Dara grinned and nodded. “Hi. Pleased to meet you.”
    “Stow that in the gondola, would you, Scott?” Zach asked, gesturing to the cooler.
    “Sure thing, boss.”
    Scotty loped away, and Zach put his arm lightly around her shoulders, steering her toward the Jeep parked near the balloon. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the guys.”
    Dara’s feet remained rooted to the spot. As far as she knew, vertigo usually occurred looking down from a high place. Which did little to explain why she had a sudden wave of dizziness when she took in the full scope of the hot-air balloon. Her gaze lowered slowly over the massive billowing cloud of rainbow stripes and landed with a mental thud on the tiny wicker basket that dangled below it.
    “Uh, Zach, there’s something we have to talk about.”
    “If it’s about having the crew ready before I asked—”
    He started forward as he spoke, and Dara had to duck out from under his arm to keep from being literally dragged along. He swung around to face her, his confused expression blessedly distracting her from the flying thimble.
    “Dart?” He closed the distance between them until her line of vision was filled with his chest. “What’s up?” He lifted her face to his with a finger under her chin. “Are you worried about spending time alone with me? Is that it?”
    That he seemed so honestly concerned with how she felt about him didn’t help her case. She tried for a cocky smile. “Well, an hour or two with you in an overgrown picnic basket could give new meaning to the words ‘captive audience.’ ”
    He leered suggestively at her, but the expression quickly faded to a warm, gentle smile that made her want to retally their incompatibilities.
    “The appeal there is enormous, but I get the feeling this isn’t about playing footsie at five thousand feet.” He let his thumb drift over her bottom lip. “What’s really wrong?”
    Five thousand feet?
She swallowed. Hard.
    “I didn’t lie about being able to handle amusement park rides and the occasional tall ladder.” She pulled back from his touch and looked down for a second. “Anything attached to the ground is no problem. Flying on the other hand …” she added sheepishly.
    She could feel the heat in her cheeks and hated it. She felt as if they were back on the playground and she’d just been forced to admit defeat to him. What was worse was the compulsion to turn and run for the truck. She took only minor satisfaction in conquering it.
    “Is it because of your dad?” he asked gently.
    She studied the individual blades of grass waving in the breeze around her hips. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. I’ve never really analyzed it.”
    “You? Not analyze something?” he teased gently. “I refuse to believe it.”
    She didn’t have to look up to know her halfhearted punch had landed squarely in his stomach. He didn’t flinch, neither did his abdominal muscles. “I tried once. I hated it,”