“Again with the saying my thoughts aloud!” I grumble.
“Stay put,” he warns.
When he seems to be content that I’m not going anywhere, he walks back to his side of the truck and turns the engine off, killing the lights.
I breathe a sigh of relief for clearing this first hurdle.
Now I have to actually walk, undetected, to the front door and pray no one woke up to the lights. If I somehow manage to make that happen, then I need to hope that my brothers are asleep and not waiting up because I was out drinking and they worry I won’t make it back safe.
I mean, look at me now. I’m just freaking fine.
Sure, I’m with my mortal enemy, dreaming of his face, his body, his mustache scratching me in all the wrong places—or right places, depending on your perspective—and I’m great. I almost puked once and can’t seem to keep my internal thoughts, well, internal. Again, I’m doing great, though.
Remembering that my internal thoughts have been becoming vocal, I look to Tristan, who runs his fingers through his dark hair and sighs. “Can you walk?”
I breathe my own sigh of relief that I didn’t say any of that. There’s no way he would’ve passed on the chance to say something.
“I can walk.”
At least I’m going to force myself to do it—unassisted.
I should really know better.
I take two steps and fall.
Yup. I fall.
Not gracefully either.
More like a sorority girl who did a couple too many keg stands and thought all was well with her balance.
It wasn’t well.
I flop over on my side and start laughing, because really, what else am I going to do? Cry? No way.
Tristan stands above me, arms crossed over his chest, and laughs. “That was…”
“Graceful?” I finish as a question.
“If you were going for the grace of a dead fish.”
I laugh and lift my hands. “Help.”
He does more than that. He squats down and lifts me up into his arms. My arms automatically loop around his neck, holding on to him. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
“What do you think? I’m not going to let you fall the entire way down your half-mile-long driveway. This is safer.”
Maybe for him. Not for me.
This close, I can feel his heat, the strength in his arms as he carries me as if I weigh nothing. I can smell his cologne mixed with fresh air and leather.
All of it is too much. Too close. Too—Tristan.
Chapter 10
Tristan
“Ipromise I can walk,” she protests as she’s in my arms. This is a big mistake.
