Chapter 7
Ivy blinked and Ryder’s face swam into focus.
One hand slid beneath her neck, the other careful but sure as he checked the spot where she’d hit the pipe. His touch was clinical—yet impossibly gentle. She focused on that steadiness, not the way the world still wobbled at the edges.
“Can you tell me your name?” His mouth was so close the warmth of his breath tickled her skin.
“Ivy. Lady Ivy, if we’re being formal. Though I think we’re past that now.”
His mouth curved, the faintest smile. “Good. That’s good. Do you know where you are?”
“Offshore rig. Deepwater Vega.” She tried to push herself up, but his hand on her shoulder kept her still.
“Easy. Stay down.” His hand shifted, blocking the light as he checked her pupils. “Any double vision? Nausea?”
“Nausea, yeah. Vision’s fine.” Her eyes tracked his face as he worked. “You don’t have to fuss over me.”
“Not fussing.” His voice was gruff. “Just checking you’re not more banged up than you let on.”
The plain honesty in his voice caught her off guard. No one had worried about her wellbeing without an agenda in—she couldn’t remember. She was always the one others leaned on—never the one allowed to fall.
Behind her, George’s voice drifted. Apologies for his sister’s clumsiness, as if she weren’t even there.
Jack’s face appeared over Ryder’s shoulder, ruddy and concerned. “You alright, sweetheart?”
Ivy shut her eyes, focusing on getting the words out.
God, she was dead beat tired. “Yeah. I think so.”
She opened her eyes, and Jack nodded, squeezing Ryder’s shoulder. “Knew she was tough.”
“Let’s get you up.” Ryder helped her to sit. “Think you can stand?”
Ivy nodded, and with his hand under her elbow, pushed to her feet even though her knees quivered like water.
Sinclair appeared, all brisk efficiency. “Let’s get her to the first aid room. It’s just five minutes from here.”
Five minutes? She sucked in a shaky breath, willing her legs to cooperate. But before she could move, strong arms swept beneath her knees and around her back.
The world tilted again—but this time in a good way.
Oh.
She’d never been carried.
Not by someone who made it look effortless, who held her like she was precious instead of a problem to manage.
Her hands found his shoulders instinctively.
She was achingly aware of everything—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating through his shirt, the careful way he adjusted his grip so she was comfortable. Each step vibrated through her body.
“I can walk,” she whispered, but didn’t try to get down.
“I know you can.” His stride never faltered. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”
Her pulse skipped. “You always treat civilians like glass?”
Ryder’s side-eye cut sharp, but his voice stayed low. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t bruise.”
The first-aid room lay down a flight of orange-painted stairs. In the center stood a reclining exam chair—half dentist’s chair, half cot. The vinyl creaked as Ryder lowered her onto it, the surface cool and faintly sticky with disinfectant.
He scanned the room once, then straightened. “I’ll be right back.”
Jack dragged over a battered office chair and dropped into it beside her. “That one’s a keeper.”
Ivy flushed. “We’re not—I mean…”
Jack gave her a look that stripped the excuse bare.
“Barely know each other, sure. Honey, I’ve spent fifteen years out here with men who’d step over you if you bled out on the deck.
That one?” She jerked her chin toward the door Ryder had disappeared through.
“He damn near broke his back to get you here.”
Heat scorched Ivy’s neck. “No. You’re mistaken.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack’s weathered hand patted her knee. “I know the difference between routine and someone scared stiff. Ryder Meyer carried you as if you were made of spun glass.”
Ryder reappeared with a paper cup, steam curling from the top. Jack shot Ivy a wink and vacated her chair to give him space.
Ryder handed Ivy the cup. “Drink this.”
The cup was warm in her palms. Chocolate scent rose—rich and sweet—pulling her back to childhood nights by the fire, her mother combing her hair as it dried. The ache of loss pressed sharp in her throat.
Ryder slid in beside her. “It’s machine chocolate. But it’s hot.”
She took a sip, sweetness and warmth spreading down her throat, loosening the tension in her shoulders. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Protocol. Don’t let people die on my watch.”
Of course. Just his job.
“Ivy! There you are.” George filled the doorway, slightly out of breath. “Sinclair wants to know if you’re up for finishing the tour—or if we should call it.”
Not how are you feeling or are you hurt—but whether she was functional enough to continue with business.
Ryder was on his feet before she could answer, shoulders rigid, body blocking her from view. “She’s had a head injury. She needs rest, not another lap around the rig.”
The protective edge in his voice made something quiver treacherously in her chest.
He’s just doing his job.
She pushed to her feet, slipping between the two men. “I’m fine. I can make my own decisions.” She met Ryder’s gaze. “Thank you.”
She turned to her brother. “I’ve seen enough for one day. We can arrange another visit—when we’re not jet-lagged.”
For the first time today, George really looked at her. His expression softened. “God, Ivy, I’m sorry. Look at you—you’re pale as anything.” He stepped to her side, his arm sliding around her waist. “Of course we’re done. I should have insisted on taking you back immediately.”
She leaned into his familiar warmth, breathing in his scent of leather and the butterscotch sweets he always carried. This was her George—the one who worried about her, not just what she could do for him.
But over his shoulder, she caught Ryder watching her with unreadable eyes.
She looked away, chasing off the dangerous ghost of his arms around her—as if, for one impossible moment, she’d mattered.