Page 54 of Axe-identally Married
For a heartbeat, I melted against him. But then reality set in.
“Cole.” I gasped, my body going tense. “We can’t.”
Slowly, his grin faded, and his eyes turned a dull brown. “Sorry.” He slid his hands from my hips, and when he took a large step back, the cold air hit me like a punch.What was I doing?
Suddenly, all logic and reason left my body, and I felt like I was going to burst out of my skin. This was bad, so bad. I had to get as far away from this situation as possible.
So without a word, I turned and hurried up the path toward the house, over the rocky ledge and toward the woods, desperately trying to ignore the hurricane of feelings building inside me.
But his lips…
I shook my head. This was not the time to lose focus.
House.
Get back to the house. It was cold and late and—
The world spun around me, and my knee screamed. In my haste, I’d managed to trip over a loose rock on the path and had face-planted in the frozen dirt. Tears stung my eyes, and I wanted to curl up and forget the past hour had happened.
But before I could give up and become part of the forest floor, strong arms were picking me up.
“Willa, are you okay?”
Aw, crap. Now it wasn’t only my knee that was hurting, but my entire soul as embarrassment joined the party.
“Please put me down,” I said through gritted teeth as he scooped me into his arms, bridal style.
He grunted. “No way. You’re hurt and upset, and it’s dark out.”
“I weigh two hundred pounds. You can’t carry me.”
He stopped and glared at me, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “I’m a goddamn grown man, Willa. I’m more than capable of carrying my gorgeous wife.”
And he did, holding me effortlessly in his arms as he navigated back to the cottage. Under normal circumstances, this would be the kind of romantic moment songs were written about. But sadly, this entire situation was far from romantic.
Once we’d reached the house, I had surrendered to the truth of the moment. He’d carried me. My leggings were torn. And I’d never recover my dignity. I’d done so well these past weeks, but I supposed it was only a matter of time before I humiliated myself in front of my husband. Dramatically running away after he kissed me and sustaining an injury was textbook.
Inside the house, I hobbled to the couch. Yup, my leggings were torn, and my knee was bleeding. Wonderful.
“Do you have a first-aid kit?”
“Bathroom closet, top shelf.”
He returned a moment later with my doctor-grade first-aid kit. It was loaded with far more supplies than your average kit, but while this injury looked gnarly, it was nothing a little hydrogen peroxide and a few steri-strips couldn’t fix.
He knelt in front of me, untying my boots and easing them off my feet.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Expression dark, he peered up at me. “Yes I do.”
“Give me that.” I reached for the box of alcohol wipes he’d opened, but he pulled his arm back. “I can do it. I’m a doctor.” I winced at the way those words sounded coming out of my mouth. As if I were superior. But I wasn’t that type of person.
“And you’re in pain and shaken up.”
“I think I can swab at a cut with an antiseptic wipe.”
“Doctor Savard,” he said, his tone sharper than I’d ever heard. He was usually so soft-spoken.
