Page 19 of Things I Read About
He gathers his skis and poles into one of his giant hands with speed and agility that only adds to his commanding tone. He moves my poles for me since I’m not really functioning at full capacity.
He puts my hands on my poles and grabs hold at the other end. He starts walking, pulling me along, pushing fast through the crowd and the snow.
How can he walk so fast in snow boots? It’s like the twelve inches of powder aren’t even there. I glide easily beside him, keeping most of my weight on my right side.
We stop at the edge of the deck, and he pulls out his phone. It hits me that our date is probably over. A whopping twenty-five minutes. Disappointment crashes down on me like an avalanche.
“Let’s get you some ice,” he says as he bends down to unclip my boots from my skis.
“Like, in a cocktail?” I try, sounding shaky.
He looks at me as he straightens. The quirk is back on his lips. “Ice for the ankle first.”
I try to think of a comeback, but I am floating. Because he just picked me up. I can smell him now. A woodsy, smoky scent. Salty, too.
I bet his massive muscles are sweating under all the layers. I can feel them tense all around me. Especially since he’s carrying me, although he doesn’t seem to be struggling.
“You’re carrying me.” Words fall out of my mouth.
“Sorry. Much faster than tracking down a resort golf cart.”
“Don’t be sorry. I-I don’t mind.”
He shakes his head a little bit. “Didn’t think you would.”
A group of snowboarders amble past us with all their gear. He stops shifts our bodies, angling to give them a bigger path.
It’s awkward.
“Sorry.” I say it to him this time.
“I don’t mind either,” he says, his voice low, and grumbly, and so hot I feel a rush of wet heat from top to bottom. Sweat and also…notsweat.
I see the sign for the clinic up ahead and begin to panic.
“Have a drink with me? After?” It comes out sounding a bit desperate. Crap. I try to save face. “I mean, I am definitely having a drink after this. Either way. But you could join me, if you want.”
He pauses in the hall just outside the clinic door. “And how’re you going to get to the bar, Sally?”
Wow, I like it when he says my name. I like it very much.
He raises a brow. “Hm?”
“It’s standard procedure for them to give me crutches.”
“Yeah.” He pushes through the door.“But you’d rather I carry you.”
Then he gives up and lets his face do what it wants.
It wants to smirk.
A wide, cocky, devastating grin.
For the first time in my life, I’m not interested in the medical staff, equipment, diagnoses, or procedures. I’m barely able to answer the customary patient questions. All I can think about is that smirk.
I want to see it again.
6
