Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“Win what?”
“I drove here without hitting a tree.” Barely. “Can you stand?”
“We’ll see.”
He can, though not easily. Without putting any weight on his left leg and bracing his back against the door, he pushes up onto his feet. More snow splatters to the floor.
“Take off your pants first,” I tell him. I sense that he’d normally have a smart-ass response to that, but his change in altitude and the pain in his leg have him fighting to remain upright instead of shooting off his mouth.
Sluggishly he unbuckles the first strap of the bib-style snow pants. The pants sag around his waist when he unbuckles the second strap. He pushes them down past his hips, but when he bends to shove them toward his feet, it’s almost like watching the slow fall of a tree as his entire body begins to lean forward, all balance gone.
I rush in, hands flat against his chest, and shove him back upright against the door.
“Don’t you dare fall,” I snap, because he’s so damn big that if he goes down, that’s it. No way could I get him off the floor.
Eyes closed again, as if the room is spinning, he nods. “I don’t think I ought to bend over again.”
Well…shit. I clench my teeth in irritation, but really—there’s not much choice here. I’ll have to take off his pants myself.
But not until I’m sure he won’t fall over. My palms are still flat against his chest, pressing him back against the door. “Are you steady?”
Reed nods, so I wait a few more seconds to make sure the head movement doesn’t make him lose his balance again. Just long enough to become aware of the body heat coming through the thermal shirt he’s wearing, and for some part of my brain to recognize how solid his chest is.
Probably because instead of flesh and blood—or a heart—it’s full of concrete, lies, and the Knowles pride.
And the longer I stand there, holding him up, the more I think about what I need to do next. I don’t want to bend over in front of his crotch while he’s standing. Or worse, get on my knees. It makes my stomach roil just picturing myself in that position—a position that he can mock later.
I don’t actually know that he would belittle me in such a disgusting way. None of the Knowles’ vitriol toward my family has ever been sexual in nature, as far as I know. But I can’t bear the thought of giving him an opening for that kind of shit.
It’s bad enough that he’s going to end up in my bed.
After another moment’s consideration, I figure out how to avoid crouching. Keeping my hands against his chest, I raise my left knee as high as I can—he’s really freaking tall—so I can shove my toes down the sagging front of his pants and slide them downward. The base layer he’s wearing underneath is smooth and tight, offering no resistance to the baggy snow pants. With barely any pressure, they crumple around his ankles.
“They’re down,” I tell him, anchoring the snow pants to the floor with my foot. “Can you step out without falling?”
He can. Slowly. And I guess he does have a heart—there’s a deep and steady beat against my right palm. Probably pumping sewage through his veins.
“Ready to walk?” I ask him when he’s free. “I’ll stay next to you in case you need steadying.”
He does need that steadying. Almost immediately he begins listing toward the fireplace.
“Hold up.” I clutch his arm and try to steer him in the right direction. “We’re going that way.”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s only one bed.” His voice is gruff, as if frustrated that he’s been forced to point out the obvious.
“So?”
“So I’ll sleep in a chair.”
I don’t know if he’s trying to be chivalrous (though I doubt a Knowles man knows the meaning of the word, let alone has ever put chivalry into practice) or if he’s afraid I’ll jump his helpless bones the instant his back hits the mattress. Either way, the answer is the same. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Your brain’s been smashed and you aren’t thinking clearly. But I am. So come on.”
A few steps later he abruptly stops. “My pack.” He reaches around to his back as if to check whether he’s got one strapped to his shoulders. “Did I forget it?”
“You weren’t carrying anything when you came in.” And if he was so confused after the accident that he forgot his belongings, it’s a miracle that he didn’t get lost on his way to the cabin. “Is there anything critical in there?”
“Critical?”
“Like, I don’t know—insulin? Other medicine?”
“No. Just clothes. And…work stuff.”
There’s no mistaking the worry on his face when he mentions his work. “Is your pack waterproof?”
His eyes close, as if in relief. “It is.”
“Then unless your work appeals to bears, I can’t imagine it’s in any danger.” We reach the bed, where I urge him to sit on the edge. “Don’t lie down yet. I need to see if your scalp is still bleeding.”