Stone Cold Kiss

Why did the Blarney Stone have to be so freakin’ hard to reach? Not only was the darn thing twelve stories off the ground, but it didn’t even have the decency to be on the inside of the wall. No, instead, she had to lie on her back on the parapet, reach out to grab the two iron rails--which she sincerely hoped were sturdy--and bend backward into the three-foot gap until her lips brushed that stone.

If there wasn’t so much on the line, she would have given up the second she’d seen it.

Instead, even now she was contemplating moving her shoulders into mid-air. Okay, she was more than contemplating it--she shimmied closer to the edge even as the thought crossed her mind. But she didn’t rejoice over what she had to do. Once her shoulders felt the draft of the cool spring air, she steeled herself and bent her head backward.

The stone. Look at the stone, she told herself. Pretend that you’re not dangling forty yards off the ground. She snorted even as she thought it. While keeping her eyes on the stone, she was well aware of how far up she hovered.

Yes, there was some sort of iron bar below her for her safety, but she didn’t trust the look of it. The Blarney Stone had been around for centuries; how long had those bars been a part of it? She didn’t even approve of the ones her hands clenched like a stress ball.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she told herself, “Stop it, stop it, stop it! You want this, don’t you?”

Unfortunately, she did.

Firming her grip even further on the bars, she eased herself into the air. How far had she gotten? One foot--two? Was she completely in mid-air? She couldn’t feel her legs anymore. Come to think of it, she couldn’t feel any part of her body aside from where her hands tightened around the bars to the point that she was afraid they might snap. Open your eyes, she told herself, but her eyelids didn’t want to obey. Finally, she managed to pry one away to look at her progress. She hadn’t even moved down three inches, if that.

In frustration, she heaved her body over the lip of the parapet.

As she did, she felt herself wobble. With a high-pitched wail--the kind only dogs could hear--she tried in vain to stiffen her watery muscles and lay herself flat like a board. Her arms trembled with the effort.

Should the ground really be spinning like that? No. No, definitely not.

“In a spot o’ trouble, lass?”

Her arms nearly weakened at those six words, spoken in a deep Irish rumble. She wasn’t sure whether she was glad for the stranger’s arrival, or if it only added to her humiliation. It didn’t matter, she decided. Her only concern was kissing the stone and getting the hell off this damn tower. She bit her lip with the effort of keeping still. “You could say that,” she answered weakly.