The last thing I need is another public scene at my brand-new job.
“Nothing. I’m heading out.” I take another step, attempting not to limp, but a hiss of pain escapes my lips.
Boone is on me faster than I can silence it.
“What happened, sugar? And don’t lie to me.”
I bite my lip, debating for a hot second whether to tell him the truth.
“Ripley ...”
When he says my name with an edge to it, I decide I’ll get out of here quicker if I just tell him.
“I fell down the stairs and rolled my ankle right before you got here. It’s swelling up, so I’m going back to Hope’s to put some ice on it.”
Boone’s expression morphs from one of concern to anger in the flash of a second. “You fell down the fucking stairs and you’ve been working for over a goddamned hour on a sprained ankle? Behind a bar?”
My jaw clenched, I reply. “I’m trying to leave now, so if you’ll—”
“You need to go to a hospital and make sure it ain’t broken. Fell down the stairs. Jesus Christ, woman.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell himnot freaking happening, because I don’t have health insurance, but instead I wave him off.
“I’ll be fine at Hope’s. I just need to put some ice on it.”
Boone’s eyes meet mine, his expression somber yet frustrated. “Let me help you.”
If there’s one trait I got from Pop, it’s my stubbornness. “I’m fine. I’m going now.” I step around Boone but he spins, bends down, and drops his shoulder to my stomach and lifts me up.
“What—”
“The only place you’re going is with me.”
One of the security guys chuckles as Boone strides out of the bar with me over his shoulder, ignoring my protests to put me down.
“Hey, asshole. She said put her down.”
I recognize Law’s voice, but Boone doesn’t slow.
Security keeps everyone back, and we clear the door. From my position over his shoulder, I can’t see a thing, but once we’re outside, I can hear yelling.
My name. His name. Questions.
Shit. It’s the press. They found him, and now pictures of me dangling over his shoulder like some barbarian conqueror’s prize will be all over the internet. Freaking fabulous.
I renew my struggles. “Put me down! They’re going to get pic—”
Boone lowers me to the ground, cutting off my demand as he wraps an arm around me. “Hold on to me for balance. Try not to put any weight on that ankle.”
How can he sound so normal?
Trying not to look toward the flashing cameras, I finally realize we’re standing next to Boone’s car, which is parked in a prime location behind the bar. Someone set up portable barricades like you would see outside a concert venue for crowd control, and three uniformed security guards stand with their arms crossed. The flashing cameras and shouting voices are beyond the wall of metal and muscle.
“They’re getting pictures of us together. Of you carrying me. Don’t you care? And did they really put a fence around your car? This is all crazy.” My hair, which was in a messy bun on top of my head, is now tangled around my shoulders.
Boone unlocks the car before shifting his attention back to me. He searches my face, but I don’t have a clue what he’s looking for. Finally, he speaks.
“You’re in my life, Ripley. It doesn’t matter how it happened, but it happened. Do I wish the press didn’t come with me? Sure, but it’s something I deal with. Am I going to let them stop me from doing what I want? Not a chance. It might be a little crazy, but maybe I am too—about you.”