“You didn’t think to start us out on this route on the way up?”
“In my defence, I didn’t think you’d be this terrible at walking. This is the route people take with strollers.”
I remember the women with their sporty buggies earlier and wonder if we could borrow one to get me to the bottom of this never-ending hill. A hiss escapes my lips as my foot scrapes the ground.
Bancroft squeezes my elbow more tightly and runs a rough thumb over a raised white scar on my forearm. “You need to distract yourself. Tell me how you got this.”
For a moment I’m amazed he’d noticed it during our dramatic morning, but he’s probably seen it before and just never asked.
“It was just some accident when I was a kid.” I breathe out, concentrating on the pins and needles tingling in my toes.
“What happened?”
“Ummm, I used to like climbing a really big tree at the bottom of our garden because my mum told me fairies lived up there. Even if it was pouring rain I’d be up this tree trying to talk to the fairies that lived there. Eventually, my dad built a little treehouse in thebranches with a tire swing.” I feel weak at the memory. “I didn’t have many friends, so he thought a treehouse would be a good way to get other kids from the neighbourhood to come hang out with me.”
“So, one of those kids did this?” he asks.
My throat dries up as he locks eyes with me, light from the warm, glowing sky bouncing off his irises.
My pained grimace curls into a half-moon smile as I recall, “No. I don’t think my dad realized at the time that most kids my age had moved on from playing make-believe to playing video games. I had too by the time he had finished it, I just couldn’t work up the courage to tell him. So instead, he, my mum and I had a fairy-themed picnic in the treehouse and then decided to test if all three of us could fit on the tire swing. The rope snapped and I broke my arm from the fall.”
Bancroft’s grip on my elbow hardens. “Ouch.”
“Very ‘ouch,’” I confirm. “I still don’t think he’s forgiven himself. The funny thing was though, I was the first kid in my school year to have a broken bone. All of a sudden, everyone wanted to talk to me about it and sign my bright pink cast.”
Bancroft arches an eyebrow. “So, in a weird way, your dad’s plan worked.”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
I wait for him to reciprocate with a similar anecdote about the scarring on his right hand, usually half-hidden by his signet ring, but he says nothing.
Eventually, I give in and ask, “How did you get that?”
He examines the white vein running from his little finger wrapping down the side of his hand, jaw tensing for a second and then releasing. “Just... dumb teenage boy stuff.”
“Right,” I concede, instantly regretting my overshare.
My chest loosens as we reach a clearing and I see the boulder marking the start of the trail. “The car will be here in three minutes,” Bancroft says resolvedly under his breath, fingers gripping my arm just a little bit tighter.
Fifteen minutes later we arrive outside his apartment building and I stumble as I lift myself from the car. He watches me limp two steps toward the door before offering to carry me in. I protest weakly, but when I sway again he rolls his eyes and swoops me into his arms. The uniformed concierge gives us a confused look as we enter the immaculately styled mid-century lobby. He watches as we head to the elevator, taking in my scrapes and foot held at an awkward angle.
“Is your girlfriend OK, Mr. Bancroft?” the man asks as we round the corner toward a row of lifts. “Do you need—”
“I’m fine! And I’m not his girlfriend!” I shout back at the man. “You can put me down now,” I demand through gritted teeth as I hear the concierge’s chuckle echo, feeling the heat draining from my flaming cheeks as the metal doors slide open.
Bancroft places me down gently and I lean on one leg against the elevator rail, my grazed hands stinging against the cold metal bar. We wait in the thick silence,listening to the hum of the lift. The arrival of his floor is announced with a deafeningding, making us both jump.
He crouches down to wrap a supportive arm around my waist as the door slides open. My sore hand rests on his shoulder and I fight every instinct to explore the taut muscles under my palm. He tenses his arm around my middle and pushes up so he’s half carrying me down the sleek, carpeted corridor.
His keys jangle as they turn in the keyhole, filling the quietness still lingering from the elevator. Instantly the smell of wood and citrus hits my nostrils as he tugs me down a hallway with dark herringbone floorboards. This apartment is modern but soft. Hazy natural light framed by linen curtains, high white ceilings, walls adorned with vintage film posters and modern abstract paintings. It is so perfectly him. Masculine, but in all the best ways. Sophisticated but easy-going, blunt but charming. It’s inviting and unpretentious, not the seedy James Bond–style bachelor pad I had always imagined. As we enter the main living space I notice a pair of small gold hooped earrings in a bowl among small change and keys.
“Did you decorate this place yourself?” I ask nonchalantly.
He smirks, clearly aware of the negative space between my question. “I had some help.”
He places me gently on a gray corner sofa and walks over to the kitchen, where he grabs a medical-grade ice pack and wraps it in a kitchen towel. He lays it on thesofa next to my leg. The cool air from the A/C wraps around me as my heart rate finally begins to lower, but it’s immediately increased once again as Bancroft tenderly traces his warm fingers around my calf and lifts it to inspect the damage to my ankle. It’s definitely a coincidence that the air conditioning makes goose bumps form all over my body at the exact same moment.
“Is this how you usually get women back to your place?” I speculate, sounding more breathless than I meant to, steeling myself through the pain. “Wound them on remote trails and carry them in because they can’t object?”
