Page 45 of Loathe at First Sight

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” When I realize just how snarky that sounded, I add, “Sorry. I’m cranky.”

“You’re always cranky,” he mumbles while kneeling next to me. “Wrap your arms around my neck.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need you to hold onto my neck so I can lift you and carry you back to my truck.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I try telling him.

“Are you just going to stay here all day, or are you going to call someone?”

“I left my phone back at the inn,” I mutter under my breath.

“So, once again, I ask—are you just going to stay here all day?”

Reluctantly, I wrap my arms around his neck so that he can lift me into his arms. One of his large arms is holding me behind my back and the other under my legs. I figure he’d struggle to hold me, but he acts like I weigh nothing. I guess those big arms of his are good for something after all.

I think about what Ronnie is going to say when I tell her about this. She’s going to make some sexual comment about how she knew he could carry me to bed in this position.

A small smile crosses my lips, and Jack takes notice. “What are you smirking at?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about something my sister said.”

“Care to share?”

“Nah. It’s sort of an inside joke.”

The look in his green eyes shows that he already knows what the joke is, but he doesn’t press any further.

While he walks back to the parking lot, I can’t help but notice how good he smells. It’s a mix of clean laundry and whatever soap he uses. I have no idea how to describe it. Cedar mixed with citrus? I don’t know. Men's smells are weird.

I figure Jack is never going to let me hear the end of this. I am never the damsel in distress that needs help from a man—let alone the guy I’ve butted heads with since I got back into town. I hate that he has to carry me anywhere right now.

It doesn’t take us long to reach his truck, and he walks over to set me in the passenger’s seat. I’m sideways, so my feet are hanging out of the door.

“Let me see,” he prompts, gently grabbing my leg. “Can you move it at all?”

Slowly, I start to twirl my ankle around in small circles. It still hurts but not nearly as much as when I first tried to stand on it. One of Jack’s large hands holds the bottom of my foot while he uses the other to stretch my ankle a little.

“Are you okay?” He asks. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to work through the pain.

He works it a little bit more, and surprisingly, it feels some better.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he tells me. “You probably just twisted it. But it’s probably going to be pretty sore the next few days. I’d try to stay off of it as much as you can.”

“I don’t know if that will happen. I’m working at the inn now and shit still has to get done.”

“Fair enough. But if you’re going to be moving around, let me wrap it.”

He walks around to the back end of his pickup truck and opens up a big metal box he has strapped in. He rummages around for a minute before returning with a long linen bandage.

“How do you just happen to have this stuff?” I ask. “Were you a Boy Scout when you were younger or something.”

He smiles. “Not at all. I’ve just had plenty of injuries—most of them worse than a twisted ankle. I always like to have supplies on hand just in case.”

“Is being a mechanic really that dangerous?”

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