One moment, I’m trying to figure out how I can ban Daisy from ever wearing those shorts in public, and the next, she looks up and notices me.
And then she goes crashing to the ground with a loud yelp.
Panic rushes through me at the sight of Daisy falling.
At the idea of her hurt.
Objectively, I know she’s probably not badly injured. She tripped in the driveway. She didn’t fall off a building.
But my adrenaline response doesn’t care about details. Not bothering to button my shirt, I race down the stairs.
I’m out the front door and across the drive in record time.
I stand in front of her, panting to catch my breath.
“Ryder,” she gasps my name. But her face is contorted in pain.
“Don’t stand,” I order as she tries to get up. “You could do more damage.”
“It’s just my ankle,” she huffs, watching me with a funny expression.
Maybe because I’m acting like a madman.
“Stop trying to get up. I got this.” I bend down and pull her into my arms, ignoring the way her warm skin feels against me.
“I can’t believe I really hurt myself,” she says under her breath. “It’s karma.”
“What are you mumbling about?” I ask as I lift her easily, scooping her up.
“Ah!” she cries in surprise. “Put me down. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I won’t hurt myself.”
“I’m too heavy.”
“You’re too light,” I argue, striding up the outside steps that lead to the house. Daisy has always been petite. She’s usuallyso busy going in a million different directions at once that she doesn’t take care of herself, subsisting on coffee and junk food, especially since she hates to cook. I decide to make sure she eats three healthy meals a day while she’s here, even if I have to cook them myself.
She makes a soft noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh and burrows herself closer. I will myself not to respond, but I can’t fight the awareness of her breasts against my chest or the way her shorts ride up under my hands as I carry her into the house.
Stop thinking about her breasts. She’s hurt.
When we make it to the couch, I set her down gently, being careful not to jostle her ankle.
“Can you move it?” I ask.
She tests and hisses.
“That’s it. We need to go to the hospital.”
“We’re not going to anywhere. It’s not broken.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can, okay? I’ve broken my ankle before, when I was a kid, and it didn’t feel like this. It’s just sprained or bruised or something. It will be fine.”
I glare. She glares back.
When I glide my hand over her skin, her breath hitches. “Your ankle is swelling. You need a doctor. My grandmother had one that made house calls. I’ll check if he can come.”
