Chapter 7 #2
“There’s good news?” His voice drips with that fancy-person sarcasm I hate.
“We’re alive.” I tap the plane’s hull. “The bad news is we’re stuck together until help arrives.”
He stares at me like I’ve just announced we’re having rats for dinner. The orange emergency jacket makes him look like a very expensive traffic cone having an existential crisis. A snowflake lands on his nose, and he doesn’t even brush it away, just keeps staring.
My fingers find Vegas in my pocket, thumb rubbing over the familiar glass dome.
“We need to find shelter. Fast.”
The wind picks up, whipping snow around us like angry confetti.
“Hello? Earth to fancy suit guy? Did you hear the part about freezing to death? Because that’s definitely on my ‘things to avoid’ list for today.”
Mr. Perfect nods, his perfect hair now completely messed up from the wind. Progress. Sort of.
“I don’t see any shelter,” he says, scanning the endless white landscape.
“I spotted some cabins to the south during our descent.” I point toward a cluster of dark shapes barely visible through the swirling snow. “Before the whole almost-dying thing distracted me. We can make it there before the storm hits. If we hurry.”
He squints in the direction I’m pointing. “How far?”
“Maybe two miles? Three tops.” The wind whips my words away. “But first—” I grab his arm as he moves, then let go because… Touching. Right. Bad idea. “We need supplies. Unless you want to freeze to death looking fabulous.”
Back on the plane, I start my checklist.
“Survival kit, emergency blankets, flares...” My fingers brush something familiar. “Ah!” I pull out my secret compartment. “More cookies!”
His eye twitches. It’s fascinating, really, like watching a perfectly engineered machine malfunction. “We could die here, and you’re excited about cookies?”
“If we’re going to die, might as well enjoy the snacks. Besides, sugar helps with shock. You look like you could use some.”
He ignores my offering, instead turning to his fancy suitcase. And then—oh. Oh no. He’s taking off his suit jacket. And his shirt. And... Wow. Okay. That’s... That’s a lot of muscle. Like an unfair amount of muscle. The kind you see in magazines, all perfect and defined and—
Stop staring, Bailey. Stop. Staring.
He pulls a thick sweater from his suitcase, then a thermal shirt, moving with that annoying grace rich people seem born with. I definitely don’t watch how his muscles flex as he layers up. Definitely not.
I shove more supplies into my bag, focusing very hard on not looking at him. “Right. So. Supplies.”
I try to put weight on my ankle again. Bad idea. Terrible idea. A pathetic sound escapes before I can stop it. Something between a whine and a yelp that I’ll definitely deny making later.
“Let me look at it.” His voice has lost that polished edge, replaced by something almost human.
“Thanks, but I don’t need—”
“Would you stop being difficult for five minutes and let me check?”
“Fine,” I grumble, because arguing takes energy I need. “But slowly.”
My heart jumps into my throat as he reaches for my foot, but his touch is gentle. Like, weirdly gentle. The kind of gentle that makes my stomach do that flippy thing again.
He guides my foot onto his lap, and I bite my lip to keep from making more embarrassing noises. His fingers brush the hem of my pants, carefully rolling up the fabric.
The cold air hits my skin, making me shiver. Or maybe that’s from something else. No. Definitely the cold. Has to be the cold.
“This might hurt,” he warns, reaching for my boot.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the pain. His hands work, unlacing with precise movements. Even through the haze of discomfort, I notice how warm his fingers are against my ankle.
The boot comes off, and I can’t hold back the groan. It feels like someone’s taken a hammer to my bones. When I dare to look, I immediately wish I hadn’t. My ankle’s already turning an impressive shade of red, swelling up like a balloon at a kid’s party.
“That looks...” I swallow hard.
“Nasty,” he finishes, his fingers hovering over the injury.
His hands are gentle as he eases my boot back on.
“We need to put this on now,” he says, “before the swelling gets worse. You won’t be able to wear the boot once it really sets in, and in this cold...” He leaves the rest unsaid, but I get the picture. Frostbite isn’t on my Christmas wishlist.
The laces pull tight, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming. The pressure helps stabilize things, but holy hell, it hurts.
“We should go to the cabins,” he says, all business now. “You were right. It’s our best shot.”
I push myself up, testing my weight on the injured leg. Pain shoots straight up to my hip, sharp and hot and absolutely not okay. Nope. This isn’t happening. The ankle’s already twice its normal size, and walking? That’s not in the cards.
“Sure, brilliant plan.” I wave toward the endless white expanse. “You have fun with that.”
“I’m not leaving you here.” His jaw sets in that stubborn way rich people get when they’re used to being obeyed.
“Aw, don’t tell me you care.”
“I care about not having your death on my conscience.” He stands, brushing snow off his ridiculous orange jacket. “Can you walk?”
The throbbing in my ankle has turned into a steady scream of pain. “Define ‘walk.’”
“I’ll carry you.”
The words hang in the freezing air between us. My brain short-circuits, caught between pride and practicality.
Night seems to be creeping in faster than it should, shadows stretching across the snow like grasping fingers.
The swelling’s getting worse. I can feel it pressing against my boot, turning every tiny movement into agony.
“I can manage,” I say, gritting my teeth. I push off the plane’s hull, trying to prove it. My leg tells me what it thinks of that plan, buckling like wet paper.
He catches me before I hit the snow, his hands steady and warm even through my jacket. My face burns hotter than my ankle.
“Clearly,” he says, his voice dry as winter air. “We’re going to the cabin, and I’ll carry you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Yes, you do.” His tone shifts, commanding in a way that makes my spine straighten. “For once in your life, stop arguing.”
“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. My pride tastes bitter, but not as bitter as freezing to death would be. “But if you try to carry me bridal style, I will kick you with my good leg.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” There’s something in his voice I don’t like. A hint of amusement that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with my ankle. His eyes flick from the deepening snow to my swollen ankle, and I watch his face change. Oh no. I know that look.
“Don’t you dare—”
But he’s already moving. He grabs my duffel bag first, slinging the strap across his chest so the bag rests against his front. Then, for the first time since I met him, his perfect mask cracks into an actual grin. “Time to test my ski resort training. Ever evacuated someone via piggyback?”
Before I can answer, he crouches in front of me, his back turned. “Hop on.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious about not freezing,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless you prefer becoming a Bailey-sicle?”
My face heats despite the freezing air. With a sigh that fogs heavily, I lever myself onto his back, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance.
My good leg hooks around his waist, the injured one dangling uselessly. With a grunt, he straightens up, taking my weight along with the duffel bag, counterbalancing me on his front.
Oh, this is so much worse than being slung over a shoulder. This is…clinging. Like a terrified, oversized koala. To Mr. Dictionary. My cheek is pressed against the shoulder of his expensive jacket, smelling faintly of cedar and something crisp, like mountain air.
I have a clear view of the back of his hair and the rapidly falling snowflakes over his shoulder.
Perfect. Just perfect. This is definitely karma getting back at me for all those dictionary jokes.