Page 49 of Interpreter

Thank fuck. My dick can’t handle any more of being between her thighs, her heat surrounding us. It’s fucking up my head. I eye her one more time, making sure she isn’t going to jump down and decide to help me anyway. When she just raises her brows, mockingly, I take a step back and find the plunger she tossed when she fell.

It takes me a few minutes to unclog the toilets. The little shits had shoved plastic wrap and paper towels in them. I guess it could have been worse and it could have been a true clog with—I don’t even want to think about it.

“I think I have it stopped for now. What do you want me to clean it up with?”

Milah, like a good girl, is still perched on the sink, rubbing her ankle. I knew it hurt. “The drain in the floor will take care of most of it. Doc will need to mop, but maybe we could wipe up the water with paper towels?”

I agree, and she pulls a few towels out of the dispenser and hands them over.

“I’m guessing I still can’t get down,” she adds, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“You guessed right.”

For some reason, Milah is pushing me hard today. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know me that well and doesn’t understand my personality or upbringing. But regardless, her stubborn ass jumps off the sink and immediately her face pulls tight in pain.

“Are you always this stubborn, or is it just with me?”

Her head is slow to pull up and face me, but when I finally see her eyes, they are heated. I’ve lit the fuse again. “Areyoualways so stubborn?”

“Yes.” My answer is simple and truthful. “But you’re hurt. I’d like for you to keep those injuries at a minimum.” That came out wrong. I don’t want her to injure herself more. I can handle this. She doesn’t need to help just so she can prove to me that she can.

“I’m fine,” she says, limping a few steps back to the sink where she can lean for support. “It’s not sprained, just sore. It’ll be fine tomorrow.” Her eyes are earnest when she flashes me a tender smile. “Thanks for helping get it all cleaned up.”

It’s not all cleaned up, I want to say. She keeps being a pain in my ass, and I can’t get it cleaned up while worrying about her. “I’ll finish up here” is all I say. Less is more sometimes. Especially when she looks at me like she wants to touch me or ask me something.

“I, uh—” Her eyes dart to the door and I follow.

A man in his late fifties and coveralls stands in the doorway shaking his head. “Just when I think I’ve seen it all.”

Milah smiles at the man, and her chest rises in quick succession. She’s laughing. “I’m sorry, Doc. We got it stopped but haven’t gotten very far with the cleanup.” She gives me a look like it’s my fault.

“Are you hurt,” Doc asks, pointing to her shoeless foot. I feel something smug-like stretch across my face.

“She sprained her ankle,” I jump in for no good reason other than to piss Milah off. With my answer, she can’t make up shit to tell Doc. Now she knows she’s being ridiculous since both of us have given her a look that says she needs to get her sexy, and injured, ass out of this bathroom.

“It’s not sprained,” she says for the thousandth time, and neither Doc nor I believe it.

He looks over her head and greets me with a tip of his chin. “You get her to the nurse, and I’ll finish up.”

Milah’s mouth opens, but I don’t give her a chance to say shit. I scoop her up and toss her over my shoulder, her ass right at my jawline. I shouldn’t have gone with the fireman hold. I should have scooped her up wedding style, but then her face would have been in my chest. So really, either way, I was going to be uncomfortable.

I nod at Doc, both of us ignoring Milah kicking and probably saying all kids of hateful shit over my shoulder. “Here’s her shoe,” he says, handing it to me.

“Thanks. I’ll come back to help you as soon as I get her to the nurse.”

Doc is already getting out his mop and supplies with his back to me, so if he says something, I miss it.

But then I feel it. Milah draws the words on my back. “No worries.”

She’s translating. Even when she’s mad at me.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him and then take the girl, who is probably cursing me in another language, back out into the hall.

“Thank you,” I tell her, setting her down right outside the nurse’s door. I don’t have to say what for. She knows, and she confirms it by waving me off. “You couldn’t see him. Now”—she points to her shoe in my hand, slipping off the other and handing it to me—“set these in my window before you help Doc. I want them dry before I go home.”

This woman. “You’re not driving with a bad ankle.”

She just stares at me, both of us locked in a silent war. “How else am I going to get home?”

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