Not the keeping her from freezing part. But protecting her. Caring for her. Feeling her body nestled against me. Feeling her soft breaths brushing my skin.
“Alec,” she murmurs. Her voice is slow. Drowsy. “You’re going to freeze.”
“I won’t.” I may end up getting a touch of hypothermia, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“You’re still in your wet clothes.” One small hand pokes out from beneath the blanket and flattens on my chest. “You need to change.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her while tucking her hand back under the blanket. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
And true to my words, a high-pitched wail finally sounds in the distance. Maybe a mile or so out, but close enough to feel reassured by it.
“Are you feeling any warmer?” I ask. With the heat pumping at full power, I know I am. But I have a lot more muscle than Hazel. And she’s much smallerthan me; at least half a foot shorter and easily fifty pounds less.
Hazel lifts her head from my neck to look at me. “Yes. I’m feeling better.”
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
Her brow wrinkles as she thinks. “Just my face. From the airbag hitting it. And my chest.”
“Your chest?” My voice rises as scenarios involving fractured ribs and bruised lungs and ruptured spleens rush through my mind. “Did something hit it? Can you breathe okay? Shit. I shouldn’t be holding you like this if your ribs?—”
“Just the seatbelt,” she interrupts. “From when I hit the water. But I don’t think it’s anything worse than that.”
I carefully adjust Hazel on my lap so her chest isn’t constricted. “We need to be careful. Until the doctors take a look at you…”
“I think I’m okay.” A beat, and then, “Cold. Sore. Shaky. But I think I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
“Not thanks to me. You’re the one who broke the windshield.”
“My dad gave me that tool. The last Christmas we had together. He always liked to give me useful things like that. A paracord bracelet. Pepper spray disguised as lipstick. The escape tool…”
Trailing off, her expression turns sad. “He’d be really glad to know it helped me.”
My heart twists. Stroking a lock of wet hair back from her forehead, I reply, “I bet he would be.”
As the sirens draw closer, we stop talking, both of us caught in our thoughts.
Then Hazel says, “Alec.” Her eyebrows pull into a little V. “Is that Taylor Swift you’re listening to?”
Shit.
I hadn’t noticed before, but yes, it is. Not loudly—I’m not one to blast music in my car; it’s far too distracting—but her voice is clearly distinguishable.
I could follow that up with some excuse, like I’d been scanning the stations on my radio and just happened to land on this when I pulled over. Or I could tell her the truth.
“It is,” I admit. “My sister loves Taylor Swift. Has for years. I actually brought her—my sister, Andrea, that is—to a concert in Boston. After hearing the music for so long, it kind of grew on me. The lyrics are good. And the harmonies.”
Hazel stares at me. Her lips quirk. “I wouldn’t have put you down as a Taylor Swift fan.”
“Oh? What do you think I’d listen to?”
“Classic rock? Or old-school metal?”
“Those are good, too,” I agree. “But sometimes I like a little Taylor Swift.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “Me too.”
And there’s that warmth coursing through me again.
