Page 34 of One Billion Reasons

He swallows hard and gives a short nod. “I’m sorry.” He presses a finger to my ankle, and I hiss a breath.

“I wasn’t made for hiking.”

He smiles faintly as he runs his fingers up and down my leg. “What were you made for, Laney?”

I want to protest that he doesn’t need to help me, but he’s being so kind that I don’t.

“Um, walks on flat ground?” I’m not athletic. I go on long walks to take photos, but I definitely don’t exercise.

He huffs a laugh and looks up at me. The shock when I meet his grey eyes feels like a physical punch. “I think it’s just sprained. There’s not much swelling.”

“Oh, and how do you know that, Dr. Becker?” My tone is teasing, but his eyes darken.

He grips my calf, and a little frisson of delight goes through me. “I wrapped your idiot brother’s ankle enough times after hockey practice, so I’ve seen my fair share of sprains.”

“All right. So you’re basically a doctor. Well, that’s good. I twisted it scrambling over a rock. But I can hobble down.” I lever myself off the rock and onto my good leg and promptly fall against Miles. His lips make contact with my stomach and for a second, I’m frozen, awkward, slumped against him. My left ankle throbs to remind me that I’m pushing this too far.

“Laney, I don’t think you can walk.” His mouth moves against my bare skin, where the cropped tank I’m wearing bares a strip of skin above my shorts. His lips are soft and wet and his stubble is deliciously scratchy. The feeling arrows straight between my legs.

I recoil and lean back against the boulder, my face red. Miles’s eyes are a little wild.

“I’m going to have to carry you.” He sounds annoyed, and I shake my head.

“No, no. That’s so humiliating. Please don’t.”

“You can’t walk. Besides, do it for me. Everyone will definitely believe we’re in love if I carry you down the mountain.”

I don’t really want to be this close to Miles, but my ankle is throbbing and my ego has taken a beating, so I just nod. He bends a little, puts one arm under my knees and the other at my back, and scoops me into his arms.

I feel like a sack of flour, all lumps and bruises and deadweight, as he starts down the trail. He, however, feels delicious. I hate this awareness of him. It’s been there for years, just below the surface. Every time I saw him unzip his wetsuit so it was hanging to his knees, every time we horsed around and got a little too rough. The memory of those hazy summer days makes me smile.

“Remember the last time I sprained my ankle?”

“Yes,” he says shortly.

I roll my eyes. Classic Miles. Chivalrous one minute and back to being an asshole the next.

It was the summer after college, and we were at Miles’s parents’ house in Montauk. We were roughhousing on the beach, playing tackle football and screeching loud enough that the neighbors, if the Becker family had any—which they didn’t—would be annoyed. Liam convinced me to play and then ran inside for some water. But not before tossing me the ball. I tried to grab it, but Miles tackled me to the sand. For brief moments, his lean form stretched over mine, his sandy legs tangled with my own. He levered himself up, and his eyes were wild, his knee between my legs. It was the first time I thought of him as more than just a friend, but a man. A hot man. I’d scanned his body, his eyes had swept my face. And then reality had come rushing back in, and I’d yelped in pain.

“Those were fun summers.”

“Yeah, they were.” His grip tightens on me. Maybe he’s remembering too. I bet he doesn’t remember what I do. I bet he thinks it was a stupid game, not the moment I realized my brother’s best friend was a man who would feature in my fantasies for years. He’s beyond those stupid games now, and he seems really annoyed that he has to help me down the mountain.

“Liam told me about the accident.”

His arms tighten around me, and then he blows out a breath.

“I’m sorry we lied to you.”

“I was mad when Liam told me, but then he told me about your dad’s death. I want to be pissed at you, but part of me understands. It’s something I would have done after I lost my parents. You still should have told me.”

“I don’t really talk about that night,” he says shortly.

“But you let me believe the worst of you.”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” Of course it matters. Or it would if we were friends. If I hadn’t already been halfway to hating him.

“Well, I hated you for years because of that. You’re saying you don’t care?” I tilt my head up to watch his throat work. His breaths are steady against me as he maneuvers around a boulder.

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