Chapter 7 - Tasha #2
"Fastest way to get you inside and dry," he counters.
I can't believe I'm being cradled against his chest and how easily he carries me up the porch steps and to the front door. When he shifts me slightly to free one hand for his keys, I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck for balance, bringing our faces alarmingly close together.
"Sorry," I murmur, trying to lean away as much as the position allows.
"You're fine," he says, his voice gruffer than before.
He manages to unlock and open the door, then carries me into a warm, inviting living room that smells faintly of cedar and coffee.
He sets me down on a comfortable-looking sofa, making sure my injured ankle is properly supported. "Stay put," he instructs. I'll get some ice and ibuprofen."
As he disappears into what I assume is the kitchen, I take the opportunity to look around.
The Sullivan home is exactly what I'd expect from Brock—tasteful and practical, with subtle masculine touches balanced by softer elements that must be Ellie's influence.
Photos line the mantel above a stone fireplace, and I can't help but notice how prominently Ellie features in most of them. Brock clearly adores his daughter.
He returns with an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel, a glass of water, and two ibuprofen tablets. "Here," he says, handing me the pills and water. "These should help with the pain and swelling."
I take them with a smile, then watch as he gently elevates my foot on a throw pillow and positions the ice pack around my ankle with practiced ease.
"You've done this before," I observe.
"Of course. On the job," he replies with a small smile. "Plus raising an active kid who went through a skateboarding phase."
I try to imagine teenage Ellie with scraped knees and sprained wrists, sitting on this same couch while her father tended to her injuries with the same care he's showing me now. The mental image warms something in my chest.
"Now, first things first," he says, straightening up. "You need dry clothes."
I glance down at my still-damp attire, suddenly very aware of how the wet fabric clings to my curves. I've always been self-conscious about my body—too full in some places, not toned enough in others—and the thought of Brock noticing makes me want to disappear into the sofa cushions.
"I can just wait for things to air dry," I start, but he's already shaking his head.
"You'll catch a chill. I'll find you something of Ellie's to wear." He pauses, his expression turning thoughtful. "Though you two aren't exactly the same size."
Ellie is curvy, too, but not as much as me. The observation, however factual and innocently meant, makes me want to curl into myself. I know he's not being critical—just practical—but years of being made to feel that my curves are something to hide rather than celebrate have left their mark.
"Whatever fits is fine," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "I'm not picky."
He nods and disappears upstairs, returning a few minutes later with a stack of clothing.
"These should work," he says, placing them beside me on the sofa. "Ellie's oversized sleep shirt and some sweatpants with a drawstring waist. The bathroom is just down that hallway, first door on the right, if you want to change."
I glance at my elevated, ice-packed ankle, then back at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Ah," he says, understanding the unspoken dilemma. "Right. I'll help you to the bathroom and wait outside if you need assistance."
The thought of hobbling to the bathroom while Brock waits just outside the door, knowing I'm changing clothes on the other side, makes me inexplicably nervous. But the alternative—asking him to leave his own living room while I change here—seems even more awkward.
"Bathroom it is," I decide, steeling myself for another round of being carried.
To my surprise, he produces a set of crutches from a nearby closet. "These might be easier," he explains.
"Perfect," I say, genuinely relieved at this less intimate option.
He helps me stand and get situated with the crutches, his hands steady and supportive at my waist. Once I'm balanced, he steps back, watching as I take an experimental swing forward.
"You've used these before?" he asks.
"Broke my leg when I was thirteen," I confirm. "I remember the technique."
He follows closely as I make my way to the bathroom, ready to catch me if needed but allowing me independence. It's a perfect balance of support and space that makes me feel both cared for and respected.
At the bathroom door, he hands me the stack of clothes. "Call if you need anything," he says. "I'll be right outside."
"Thank you," I say, suddenly feeling shy under his concerned gaze. "I'll be quick."
Inside the bathroom, I lean against the counter and take a deep breath.
The face that looks back at me from the mirror is flushed, with tendrils of damp hair clinging to my cheeks and neck.
I look thoroughly bedraggled, a far cry from the put-together impression I'd hoped to make when finally meeting Brock Sullivan in person.
But as I change into Ellie's clothes—the soft t-shirt thankfully loose enough to fit comfortably, the sweatpants requiring the drawstring to be pulled quite tight—I realize something unexpected: Brock has seen me at my literal worst today, and he's treated me with nothing but kindness and respect.
There's something powerfully intimate about that, more so than if we'd met under perfectly controlled circumstances where I could present only my best self.
When I emerge from the bathroom, he's waiting as promised, his own clothes changed to dry jeans and a simple gray henley that fits him perfectly. His dark hair is still damp, making him look younger somehow, less like the formal fire chief and more like... just Brock.
"Better?" he asks, his eyes doing a quick assessment of my condition.
"Much," I confirm, adjusting my grip on the crutches.
"I can run by the cabin later and pick up whatever you need for an overnight stay."
"That's really not necessary. These are fine."
"Let's get you back to the couch and comfortable first," he suggests, leading the way. "Then we can figure out the rest."
As I settle back onto the sofa and he repositions my ankle with fresh ice, I'm struck by how natural this feels.
It should feel strange or awkward—he's my best friend's father, a man I've admired from afar for years—but instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Like I was meant to be right here, in this moment, with this man tending to my injured ankle with hands that are both strong and gentle.
And that realization is more frightening than any mountain storm could ever be.