Page 67 of Burnin' For You
Now, at his touch on her knee, she winced, one eye closing.
“You should have told me it was this bad. You were holding me up for hours—”
“I was fine.”
“You werenotfine. I should have been carrying you.”
Although in his condition, no, he couldn’t have carried anyone. His head still throbbed, but at least the roaring headache had lessened, and he no longer had the urge to retch, the world no longer a whirl.
He could confess that it’d helped that she’d curled against him all night—maybe for warmth, but he considered it medicinal. A way for him to stay awake, his entire being ultra-aware of holding her in his arms.
He couldn’t believe how far twenty-four hours had taken them. Just throw in a plane crash, being held at gunpoint, and nearly being burned alive to take the awkward out of their, um—relationship?
He wasn’t sure what to call what had happened between them. Survival-induced kissing? Moral support? One heck of a fantastic teammate?
He knew what he wanted to call it, but he’d been halfway to true love before they got on the plane, thanks to the Fountain Lake fire, and especially since that little blue dress.
Even if he hadn’t been trying to stay alert long after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, he would have sat there watching the moon trace her face, glide over the petite nose, the high, graceful cheekbones, the tiny perfect, kissable mouth. Andwowthat mouth could kiss. At that thought, a tiny ball of rage formed in his gut. Simmered. Turned to live coals.
The story of her attack had kept him awake as the night turned to grays, then rose-golds, and finally enough light for him to stir them to action.
If he ever caught the man who’d…well, he wouldn’t have any trouble figuring out what to do, and he wouldn’t spend one moment letting regret stare at him in the mirror.
In fact, the entire story and everything she’d done to keep him alive made what he was about to say stick in his throat, a burning snag lodged there.
He couldn’t leave her behind. But with her knee the size of a prize-winning cantaloupe, she couldn’t walk, either.
“I need to carry you.”
She looked up at him, then back at his hands cupping her enormous, whitened knee, and shook her head. “No, I can walk.”
He didn’t want to, but frankly, Gilly had girl-who-won’t-quit written all over her, so, although it put a fist in his gut, he leaned back, stood up, and held out his hand. “Get up and prove it.”
Her jaw ground tight, and she reached out, grabbed his hand. Used her other leg to stand up on. Then he let go and backed away.
And felt like a class-A jerk when she tried a step, cried out, and started to fall.
He caught her easily, hoisted her up in his arms. “Babe, I think we both know the truth here.”
“You’re not carrying me.” She pressed her hands to his chest. “You’re still recovering from a concussion, and we’re running out of time. Don’t tell me you’re not a little worried about Patrick and Brownie finding the team.”
“I’m out of my mind with worry.”
“Me too. Which is why you have to put me down.”
He drew in a breath.
“And leave me here.”
He stilled, his body going cold. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes, absolutely.” She was wriggling now, pushing against him, and well, she already had issues with being held against her will, so he set her down. Gently. Knelt next to her.
She might be a little right, because the world could still spin on its axis if he moved too fast. But for now, he was upright, could think clearly—ormostlyclearly.
Because a part of him was seriously considering her words.
“No—”