“Fine,” I huff. “But only because you’re not letting this go.” I hook my arm around his neck and we shuffle toward the door. The parking lot feels like it’s miles away.
“This is never going to work.” He stops, turning toward me. “Will you hold this?”
He hands me the bag of leftovers. “Sure, but what…”
Before I can finish, he scoops me up in his arms like I’m featherlight, one arm under my knees and the other around my back.
“What are you doing?”
“Someone has to take care of you.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if carrying a woman across a parking lot is something he does every Saturday. “I can’t let you limp all the way back to the hotel.”
I go quiet, unable to meet his eyes as he literally carries me across the dark parking lot, through the lobby, and past the front desk clerk, who only lifts an eyebrow when she sees us.
When we reach my room, he sets me down like I’m made of glass.
“I can handle it from here,” I say, fumbling for my key.
“Hand it over, Rossi.” He wiggles his fingers for the card.
“Seriously, I can hop from here. Or crawl if necessary. I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re not crawling anywhere.” He takes the key and opens the door, then I’m in the air again as he hauls me to my bed.
This would be way more fun if there was an actual romanticreason he was carrying me to bed. But a twisted ankle, unfortunately, is not one of them.
He takes off his suit coat, draping it across a chair. “I need some ice. Don’t move.”
“Where would I go?” I gesture to my ankle. “It’s not like I’m running away anytime soon.”
He disappears with an ice bucket and returns a few minutes later, grabbing a hand towel and wet washcloth from my bathroom. His sleeves are still rolled up, showing off those sculpted forearms I can’t seem to ignore. Then he props my leg on a pillow, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he takes the washcloth and cleans my feet. He’s so cautious with me it’s almost more startling than the pain from my injury.
A man who can command an entire hockey team, reduced to washing my feet. Tonight was supposed to be about having fun, not taking care of me. But here I am, wishing he was in my room for a different reason entirely.
If he’s this gentle with my feet, I can only imagine how gentle he’d be with the rest of me.
He dries my feet, then wraps some ice in a towel and presses it to my ankle.
I suck in air through my teeth. “Wow, that’s cold!”
I pull my ankle back, but he’s quicker.
“You’re not getting out of this, Rossi.” He gives me a look as he presses the ice against my ankle again.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. “Remember when you taught me to wrap my ankle after I twisted it during that beach volleyball game in high school?”
His mouth twitches. “You mean, when you insisted you didn’t need help then either?”
“I wasn’t hurt.”
“You could barely walk.” He adjusts the ice. “Some things never change.”
I can see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, hair falling over his forehead, the way his arms flex as herests a hand on the bed.
He leans in slightly, only a fraction, but just enough that I can smell a hint of his cologne—something expensive and clean.
The room is quiet, and for a moment he reminds me of the boy who talked me into midnight swims and staying until the carnival closed down for the night. We saw each other almost every night that summer before he left for the Marines. Spent late nights looking at the stars in the back of my brother’s truck, sharing elephant ears at the carnival, chasing down sunsets while the wind from his car windows tousled my hair.
He glances at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking of it too—how we’re still that same boy and girl.