“That may not be the most realistic timeline. Besides, I thought you were in a big hurry.”
“I am, but there’s no way you can carry me all that way. It’s still really far and it’s too much for me to ask.”
“You didn’t ask. I just picked you up.”
He’s right. He did. He just picked me right up off the ground like I was a sack of spray-tanned potatoes. As if I didn’t have a choice in the matter. “Yeah, speaking of that, you should probably ask before you just, swoop a woman off her feet.”
“It’s not exactly a habit of mine,” he answers, his breathing growing a little harder now.
“Good. Because you can’t get away with acting like a caveman anymore.”
He chuckles a little. “Caveman? If anything, I’m acting like a fireman. Except now that I think about it, maybe I should’ve thrown you over my shoulder. That way, you could be complaining to my backside right now.”
A flash of having an up-close view of his ass renders my brain useless for a second, then I manage to set it aside. “I’m not complaining,” I tell him, letting my arm rest a little more on his very nice chest than required. “I’m just saying that in polite society, you need to ask permission before you … do things with a woman’s body.”
“Yeah, well, in polite society, I would ask permission, but you’re not all that polite.” He stares ahead while a smirk crosses his face.
It’s the sort of irritating, cocky, smug-as-fuck smirk that makes me want to scramble out of his arms and kiss him hard on the mouth at the same time. My mind short circuits and I’m unable to come up with a fast retort. Finally, I manage to say, “God, you’re infuriating.”
“Is that New York for thank you?”
“You know what?”
“We should stop talking?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Sounds glorious.”
13
More Empirical Proof That One Truly Is the Best Number…
Mac
The sun islow in the sky by the time we finally reach the beach. My back hurts and my arms feel like they could fall off, but that is information I will never share with Paige, on account of her thinking there’s something wrong with her as far as her weight goes. The truth is, I’d be sore and tired if I carried anyone down that mountain, including Lisa Loeb. It was a freaking long way. Also true? That she’s perfect as is. She’s got curves for days—the kind you could really take your time exploring. But that’s not what I should be thinking about right now, because we’ve got some serious problems to deal with—the most urgent one being that nasty gash on her knee. If that gets infected, it’s not as if I can just zip over to a doctor with her. Worst case scenario, she could wind up with sepsis. Not that it’s likely, but it’s something I have to keep an eye on.
Speaking of keeping my eye on things, I can’t seem to stop glancing at her. It’s quickly become an uncontrollablereflex. I glance at her lips, then look away. Then her eyes, her cheeks, her chest. She’s got a little sprinkle of freckles across her nose and on her upper chest that you can’t see unless you’re close-up. Especially not through that spray tan. But having her here in my arms allows me a unique vantage point, a window into how she normally looks—pale, freckled, and really, really pretty. She might irritate the hell out of me, but it’s in the best way possible. It’s in that way that makes me want to press her up against the wall and do all sorts of ‘things to her body’ that you wouldn’t do without permission. My mind flashes on the conversation about permission and takes me down a twisty, curvy path it shouldn’t be on.
A while ago, there was a shift in the tension between us. It’s as if we’re both too tired and worn out to be annoyed with each other anymore. There’s something softer about her now. I suppose I could chalk it up to her being grateful that I’m carrying her. But it feels like something more.
“We’re almost there,” she says, smiling up at me.
“Yup. Freedom might be just around the bend.”
Her smile falters a little, but she quickly recovers. “Fingers crossed someone will be there.”
“Yup. Or maybe a HAM radio, if we’re lucky.”
“That would work too.”
I look over at Tweety while I trudge through the sand past her. She looks broken and fragile, and the sight of my plane like that makes my stomach tighten.
As if Paige can read my mind, she says, “I’m sorry about Tweety.”
I break my gaze from the plane to look back at Paige. “I’m sorry you’re stranded with me.”
She gives me a little grin. “I don’t know, there are worse people I could be stranded with. Like my assholeboss, for example,” she says, referring to our conversation from last night.
