But there are steps to follow. I set her carefully onto her feet and let reality do the talking. “You sure about that?” Her driving foot is the injured party.
Wobbling, she sucks in a sharp mouthful of air that does make me feel a tad guilty. “You play dirty, Knox Herd.”
“Nope. Just to win, Everly Anne.” I tweak the tip of her nose. “Now. What do you say?”
She glares.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She lets me stabilize her as she slides into the passenger seat. She takes the belt from me and bats at my hand. “It’s only my foot. I think I can still manage to put on a seatbelt.”
I grin all the way around the car. The hum ofJingle Bellsrumbles my lips while I adjust the seat and mirrors.
As at the motel, the engine hesitates a second before rolling over. “You really need to get that looked at.”
All I get for my helpful suggestion is a mumbly grunt, and by the time we’re merging with freeway traffic, Everly’s arms are pinned in an unduly tight x across her chest.
“Does your ankle hurt really bad? We can stop for something.”
One long finger beats her arm. “This is just awful.”
I signal to move over a lane, aiming for the next exit.
She grabs my arm. “I don’t need medicine. I can handle the pain.” She huffs. “What I can’t deal with is the humiliation.”
We fly past the green exit sign. “Humiliation?”
“Maybe in some stupid romcom the bimbo twists her ankle and needs the guy to sweep her into his arms.” She snorts. “Ridiculously clichéd, and not a real-life scenario.”
I choke on a laugh. Oh, the irony.
She wags her finger. “All I can say is you better know this is not fake and not me flirting.”
Should I clue her in that we men don’t exactly have a problem with being the object of flirtation? “Aw, now you’re just ruining the fun, Ev.” My aim is for a roguish smile. “Carrying you is top-ten.”
She presses her back to the door. “Top-ten what?”
“That’s my little secret—but I’m reconsidering. Sweeping you off your feet was top five, at least.” Truth is, holding her when she needed me pretty much topped the charts of best-ever date moments.
Her huff rings through the air. “You’re just messing with me.”
And I’ll allow her to think so—for now.
She holds her palm in front of a vent and tweaks its aim. “Women do pull that kind of nonsense, you know that, right?”
“Not around me they don’t. Rand, maybe.”
I death-grip the wheel the second the words are past revocation.Crud.
“Who is Rand?”
Oh, right. “My brother.” And I am the king of idiots.
She generously allows the subject to lie, like a big old sleeping dog that would wreck the room if he got woken up.
I hate when I tip my hand to my lameness—and all when I was sailing like a champ through the usually choppy waters of the dating game.
Everly fiddles with the satellite radio and tunes to a channel playing classic Christmas tunes. More lights than usual string the city skyline, as well as the more suburban areas we pass through.
