Chapter 7 - Tasha
I've been embarrassed plenty of times in my life. There was the sixth-grade talent show where I forgot the words to "My Heart Will Go On." The college presentation where my blouse button popped open mid-speech. The time I accidentally sent a text meant for Ellie to my strict accounting professor.
But none of those moments come close to the mortification of being carried down a mountain by Brock Sullivan.
Chief Brock Sullivan. Fire department hero. My best friend's father. The man whose photos I may have lingered on a little too long whenever Ellie posted them.
And now his strong arms are hooked under my knees while my breasts are pressed against his broad back. My face is close enough to his neck that I can smell the clean, masculine scent of his skin beneath the earthy smell of rain and forest.
This is fine. Totally fine.
Except for the shooting pain in my ankle, the uncomfortable awareness of every curve of my body pressed against him, and the certainty that I must feel incredibly heavy despite his assurances to the contrary.
"How are you doing?" he asks, his deep voice vibrating through his back against my chest.
"I should be asking you that," I deflect, trying to hold myself as rigidly as possible to minimize contact. "I'm not exactly a lightweight."
He makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. "You're fine. Stop worrying about it."
"Easy for you to say. You're not getting a piggyback ride from your daughter's friend."
"True," he concedes. "But I did once have to carry one of my biggest firefighters down three flights of stairs during a training exercise while he pretended to be unconscious. Compared to that, this is a walk in the park."
"Or a walk down a muddy mountain in the rain," I correct, wincing as a particularly sharp pain shoots through my ankle when he navigates a tricky section of trail.
"Almost to the truck," he promises. "Hang in there."
I try to focus on anything other than the intimate contact or the pain.
The rain has lightened to a gentle drizzle now, and occasional breaks in the clouds allow shafts of sunlight to penetrate the forest canopy, creating a magical, ethereal quality to the landscape.
Under different circumstances, I'd be enchanted by the beauty surrounding us.
When the parking area finally comes into view through the trees, I feel both relief and an unexpected twinge of disappointment that this bizarre, intimate journey is ending.
"There's the truck," I say unnecessarily, just to break the strange silence that has fallen between us.
"Yep. Home free." His breathing is slightly labored now, though he's clearly trying to hide it.
"You can put me down here," I suggest as we reach the edge of the parking area. "I can hobble the rest of the way."
"And risk you falling again and injuring something else? I don't think so." His tone is light but firm. "I'm delivering you directly to the passenger seat."
He carries me all the way to his truck, somehow managing to shift me to one arm while he opens the door with the other. It's an impressive display of strength that makes me feel simultaneously safer and more flustered.
"Easy now," he murmurs as he helps me into the passenger seat. His hands are gentle yet sure as he makes sure I'm settled, his focus entirely on my comfort and safety.
Once I'm situated, he retrieves a small first aid kit from behind the seat and kneels in the mud beside the open door. "Let me take a quick look at that ankle before we head back."
I nod and try not to wince as he slowly removes my hiking boot and sodden sock. His hands are unexpectedly gentle as he examines my already swelling ankle.
"Definitely a sprain," he confirms, "but I don't think it's severe. Still, you'll need to stay off it for a few days, keep it elevated, ice it."
"I can manage that at the cabin," I assure him, though the thought of hobbling around alone while injured isn't particularly appealing.
He shakes his head. "The cabin has those steep porch steps, and you'd be on your own if you needed anything." He hesitates, seeming to debate something internally. "I think you should stay at my place, at least for tonight. We have a guest room on the main floor, no stairs necessary."
Did I hear it right?
"That's... really not necessary. I don't want to impose."
"It's not an imposition," he says firmly. "It's common sense."
"What about Ellie?”
"Ellie will understand completely," he interrupts. "And probably berate herself for not being a better host in the first place. In fact..." He pulls out his phone, frowns at the lack of signal, and puts it away again. "We'll call her once we're back in cell range."
I want to continue protesting, to insist I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. But the throbbing in my ankle and the genuine concern in his expression make it hard to argue.
"If you're sure it's not too much trouble," I finally concede.
"It's not," he says simply, then produces an elastic bandage from the first aid kit. "Let me wrap this for now. It'll help with the swelling until we can get some ice on it."
I nod, watching as he expertly wraps my ankle. Once my ankle is secured, he pulls a clean, dry sock from his backpack—slightly too large but better than nothing—and eases it over my foot. "This should keep you a bit warmer," he explains, then gently places my injured foot on the floorboard.
"Thank you," I say, the words feeling inadequate for the care he's showing. "For everything. The hike, the rescue, all of it."
He looks up, our eyes meeting briefly before he glances away. "Just doing my job."
"Pretty sure 'entertaining your daughter's friends' isn't in the fire chief job description," I point out.
That draws a short laugh from him as he closes my door and circles around to the driver's side. Once he's settled behind the wheel, he starts the engine and cranks up the heater. The warm air feels heavenly against my damp clothes and chilled skin.
We drive silently for several minutes, winding our way down the mountain road that leads back to town. I catch him glancing over at me occasionally, checking on me without being obvious about it.
"You can ask how I'm doing," I say finally, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Instead of the covert surveillance."
He looks caught out, then chuckles. "Professional habit. How's the ankle?"
"Throbbing, but manageable." I shift slightly in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. "I feel ridiculous, though. What a way to end a hike."
"Trust me, it's far from the worst hiking injury I've seen," he assures me. "Not even in the top twenty."
"That's comforting, I think?" I laugh despite the pain and embarrassment. "At least I'm not breaking any records for outdoor stupidity."
"Hardly. That honor belongs to the tourists who tried to take selfies with a mother bear and her cubs last spring."
My eyes widen. "You're joking."
"Wish I was. They lived, thanks to some quick thinking by a park ranger, but it was a close call."
"Okay, that does make me feel better about my muddy tumble."
As we reach the outskirts of Cedar Falls, Brock's phone finally registers service. It immediately buzzes with incoming messages, which he ignores until we stop at a red light.
"Three texts from Ellie," he reports after glancing at the screen. "Wondering where we are, if we got caught in the storm, and if we're okay." He hands me the phone. "Want to reply? Tell her what happened and that you'll be staying at my place tonight."
I take the phone, feeling oddly intimate using his device. "Are you sure about this? I really don't want to intrude."
"Tasha," he says, his voice gentle but firm, "you're injured, it's pouring rain, and you're my daughter's best friend. There's no way I'm dropping you off alone at that cabin."
Put like that, it does seem like the only reasonable option. I type a quick message to Ellie, explaining about the storm, my sprained ankle, and the change of plans. Her response comes almost immediately:
*OMG I'm the WORST friend ever!!! Of course stay at our place! Dad will take good care of you! I'll come home right away!*
I show Brock her response, and he shakes his head with a small smile. "Tell her not to rush back. We've got everything under control."
I relay the message, though part of me wishes Ellie would come home immediately. Having her there would make staying at the Sullivan house feel less... loaded, somehow. Less intimate.
Ellie's reply pops up: *If you're sure... Grant and I were about to watch this documentary he's been wanting to show me. But I can totally bail if you need me!*
"She and Grant were about to watch a documentary," I report to Brock. "She's offering to bail, but..."
"But you don't need a babysitter," he finishes for me. "Tell her to enjoy her evening. You'll be fine."
I send the message, feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension. Relief that I'm not disrupting Ellie's plans, apprehension about spending the evening alone with Brock.
Not alone, exactly, I remind myself. We'll be in his house, a normal domestic setting. Two adults behaving perfectly appropriately while one recovers from a minor injury—nothing to feel weird about.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the driveway of a charming two-story Craftsman-style home with a deep front porch and neatly maintained garden. I've seen this house in the background of some of Ellie's photos, but being here in person feels surreal.
"Home sweet home," Brock announces, putting the truck in park. "Wait there—I'll come around and help you."
Before I can protest, he's out of the truck and circling to my side. When he opens my door, I brace myself for another embarrassing piggyback ride, but instead, he scoops me up in his arms like something out of a romance novel, one arm behind my back and the other under my knees.
"This is really not necessary," I protest weakly, my face heating as he kicks the truck door closed and carries me toward the house.