A few feet of hard white tile floor separate us, but I catch a whiff of his cologne and take a deeper breath without being noticed. Who wears cologne to the gym?
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” Why won’t he go away?
Rather than answer my unspoken command to leave me the hell alone, he closes more of our distance. “Come on. I’ll take you upstairs in the elevator.”
“I’m okay, really.”
He blows out a breath in annoyance as his jaw tightens. “Marissa, get in the elevator.”
A sigh escapes my lips. Have I ever given up a fight so easily? “Fine.” I give in but don’t move. Screw his snazzy little elevator. Why won't he let me sit here and be sad? There’s enough anger at his general presence to do it too, but a small part of me recognizes this as my best option. The trip to the fourth floor will take minutes rather than hours and I won’t have to bother Aspen or Simone.
It’s the single reason I’ll let him win this time.
I slide down the step using my hands to prop me up and reach the lost crutch, but Ryland beats me there. He picks up the wooden death spear from the floor and the second one holding a hand out for me.
With both crutches back in place under my arms, my first step is wobbly as he walks around the corner. I’m slow and it’s three tile lengths later before he turns back to watch my sad, pathetic attempt at crutches.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Walking.” The pain worsens and I lose the ability to worry about a nice response. An ice pack is my most pressing concern right now.
He props a hand on his hip and cocks his head to the side. “No. Put a crutch first and then move your foot.”
I grunt at him but try to follow his quick directions. It’s as helpful as the nurse while she adjusted the crutches.
“Have you never had crutches before?” This question annoys me more than the first and I visualize hitting him in the head with one. But I worry I’d fall over and hurt myself more.
“No. I’m normally a coordinated person. I’ve never needed them before.”
“Let me help.” He slides into the spot next to me and takes each crutch while wrapping an arm around my waist.
I want to complain, but I’m missing a leg to stand on. Literally. As much as I hate to admit it, I need this man’s help.
We make it to the elevator faster than I ever could have on my own, and Ryland uses the bottom of a crutch to open the elevator door. As we wait for the ride to start, he readjusts his arm moving it further down causing him to lean over me.
He grips tighter and puts the crutches at an angle to better carry us both. “My God you’re short.”
He’s so full of compliments. “I’m average. You’re unnaturally tall," I grind out.
The door opens to a small hallway in his penthouse and we step out. Since he leads most of the way, I scan the surroundings. This may be the one peek I get of the place. It’s uninspiring. At the end of the elevator hallway, the space is large and open, but there’s no personality to be found. Well except for the numerous Post-it notes stuck all over his fridge in nice straight lines. Figures. The counter space and shelves are void of any special objects or knickknacks. Not even a coffee maker. A couch sits between the open kitchen and large television in the living room, but no special pictures hang from any of the walls.
“Well you know what they say about tall people.” His innuendo stops my scrutiny of his home.
I raise an eyebrow as he continues to limp us through his home toward the hallway door. “No, what do they say?” I’m clueless. I've heard feet, and hands, sure. But height? No.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” He laughs at his own joke and opens his door for us.
When we stop in front of my apartment, Ryland leans over more and rifles through my purse.
“Hey! You don’t go through a lady’s purse.” I try to move his hand, but I’m locked tight in his hold.
“Calm down. I didn’t see your condom stash.” He holds out my key ring and jingles the few different sets on the hook.
“I don’t own a condom stash.” You have to be having sex to need a condom stash.
Miscellaneous boxes are stacked in the middle of my living room, but Ryland doesn’t comment on them as he walks me to the bedroom. In any other situation, I’d be concerned he knows where he’s going, but considering he owns the place, I’ll let it slide.
“All right, let’s go. Hop in.” He stops in front of my bed and I reach out to hold the side as I hobble under the covers.
