Chapter 11 #2
Just as I’m preparing to take an impromptu bath, a strong hand grabs my arm, yanking me forward. I slam into something solid and warm, and suddenly, I’m tangled up with Harry bloody Matheson, both of us tumbling onto the mossy ground in a graceless heap.
For a moment, we lie there, my body draped over his like a human blanket, every inch pressed against him. I lift my head and find myself nose-to-nose with Harry, close enough to count every stupidly long eyelash framing those bright-blue eyes.
Harry stares back at me. For a split second, something hot and hungry flares in his gaze, making my breath catch.
But then he’s shoving me off him, scrambling to his feet like he’s been scalded.
I guess when he doesn’t need my warmth, Harry doesn’t want me touching him.
He avoids my gaze, dusting off his trousers with quick, jerky movements.
“Well, that was certainly an inelegant way to cross a stream,” he says.
“I apologize. We can’t all be as naturally gifted at leaping around the forest as you are, Harry. Some of us are just mere mortals,” I say as I climb to my feet slowly, removing a few errant pine needles clinging to my jacket.
He lifts his gaze to mine, and our eyes catch on each other for a second before he turns and stalks off through the forest.
I stumble after him, my mind churning.
What the hell was that?
Did I imagine the flare of heat in his eyes? Am I starting to completely lose my mind?
There’s no way Harry Matheson just looked at me like he wanted to devour me. Unless perhaps he’s reached that point of extreme hunger where he’s evaluating cannibalism as an option. Maybe that look just meant he’s mentally seasoning me with wild herbs.
Anyway, I have more important things to worry about right now.
Like surviving.
The cold seeps through my clothes, a constant reminder of how precarious our situation is. Every step could be bringing us closer to rescue or deeper into danger. The forest’s silence is broken only by our stumbling steps and the occasional unidentifiable animal sound.
Harry and I follow the stream to where it meets a larger, more swiftly flowing river. Harry contemplates the river, his face evaluating.
“I don’t think even your long legs are leaping that,” I say.
He gives me a withering look in reply. But I’m determined to show he’s not the only one who can think strategically.
“Maybe we should attempt to cross it? That will get us further away from our pursuers,” I suggest.
“But we’ll get wet, and it will be virtually impossible to get dry today without lighting a fire.”
He’s right. Damn it, he’s right. I’m not stupid enough to disagree with him just for the sake of arguing when he’s making sense.
We continue to walk alongside the river, the sky leaden above us.
For some reason, Harry always seems to walk a few steps in front of me. He’ll argue it’s because he’s the one with the compass, but I think it’s because he naturally sees himself as the leader in all situations.
As I blindly stare at Harry’s form ahead of me, I notice something odd about his gait.
His usual confident stride has been replaced by a slight limp, and he’s wincing every time his right foot makes contact with the ground.
I don’t say anything, but I keep an eye on him, and now that I’ve noticed the weirdness in how Harry is walking, I can’t unsee it. His steps become shorter and more tentative with each passing minute.
“Stop for a break?” I suggest.
Harry’s shoulders sag in relief, but when he turns back to me, his face is as composed as ever.
“If you need to,” he says.
I try not to snort.
Sure enough, as soon as Harry collapses onto the log, he takes off his shoes and peels off his bloodied socks.
And without thinking, I drop to my knees to closely examine Harry’s feet.
“Oh my God, Harry, your feet are a mess.”
“It’s just blisters,” he says. He’s looking down at me, his breath coming more rapidly than usual.
“Your heels are shredded,” I say.
“Well, I didn’t exactly pick my shoes with the intention of hiking through the Nordic wilderness, did I?” There’s something slightly off in his voice, but I’m too busy focusing on his ravaged feet to dwell on it.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
I can’t believe he’s been suffering through this without a single complaint. It really does reinforce my cyborg theory. Although I guess you could argue that the fact he’s currently bleeding up a storm provides evidence he’s human.
“Not everyone feels the need to make a fuss about every little thing,” he mutters.
“You are the stubbornest son of a bitch I’ve ever come across.”
“That’s something coming from you,” he replies coolly.
He has a point. I hate to think Harry Matheson and I have anything in common, but I have to concede stubbornness is a trait we share.
I turn my attention back to his feet. They are long and lean, just like the rest of him.
Seeing his perfectly formed feet with their perfectly cut toenails stirs a weird emotion inside me.
I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to run my fingers along the arch of his foot, to feel his smooth skin and delicate bones beneath.
“We’ll need to dress your heels,” I say.
His jaw clenches. “I can do it myself.”
“Don’t be stupid. You won’t be able to do it properly from that angle.”
I retrieve the small first-aid kit out of the survival kit. Then I touch the flesh around his heels softly, trying not to hurt him, making sure I keep my fingers gentle.
Harry makes a choked sound.
I look up at him.
But it’s not pain on his face.
He’s watching me with intensity etched between his brows. His lips are parted slightly, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Harry doesn’t like me touching him.
It’s weird to see Mr. Unflappable so clearly…flapped.
Is it just because he dislikes me? Or is there something else going on here?
I’m suddenly aware of how intimate this position is, kneeling before him, my face level with his thighs.
My heart thuds in my ears.
I deliberately run my hands over the top of his foot and up past his ankle. I keep my hands gentle, halfway between a touch and a caress. And even though it’s just an experiment, just a simple test to gather data, my mouth goes dry as I run my hands over Harry’s smooth alabaster skin.
I swallow hard, trying to get some moisture back into my mouth.
“Just checking for more blisters,” I manage to say.
“I think you’ll find my calves are unlikely to have blisters.” Oh fuck, I can tell he’s trying for his usual dulcet tones, but his voice definitely has a rougher edge than usual.
I lift my gaze up to his.
His blue eyes, which normally contain pure ice, have something else in them. Like there’s a storm raging among the icicles. As if Harry’s fighting a battle within himself right now.
Is Harry…?
The thought has never entered my head, but now it’s there, I can’t get it out.
He’s married to a woman. But I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He can easily be married to a woman and still be attracted to men.
That weird, unsettled feeling is back in my stomach. But now it’s sloshing around, churning with something I’m not quite ready to name.
A perverse side of me likes that Harry is finally showing some emotion. It appears experiencing a plane crash in the wilderness and being chased by armed terrorists won’t fluster Harry Matheson.
But me touching him will.
I let go of Harry’s feet and busy myself by rummaging in the first-aid kit for some dressing, my mind racing. My hands shake, and I can feel the weight of Harry’s gaze on me, heavy and intense.
An unexpected noise startles me from my endeavors.
The bark of a dog.
And any feelings I have about Harry Matheson’s reaction to me touching him is eclipsed by another, pure emotion.
Terror.