Page 11 of False Assumptions

“You’re right.” She ground her teeth, hating to admit that to him, even if she knew it was true. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Would it help if I told you my dad was a physical therapist?”

She eyed him up and down, noticing the smirk tugging at his lips. Was he laughing at her? “Maybe.”

Waving her toward the trail, he came to stand beside her. “Let’s walk and see how you do.”

Leading with her injured leg, she tried to take a step, but it hurt worse than before, bringing tears to her eyes and forcing her to muffle an involuntary cry of pain.

Evan’s hand on her arm stopped her. “I thought you said you could walk?”

She gritted her teeth. “I can. I’m walking.”

“Really? Is that what you call this?”

“Shut up. I’ll be fine. Just go on. I’ll get myself back to the parking lot and go home. I’ll go to the campus doctor tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. The clinic is closed.”

She growled in frustration. “Fine. Monday then.”

He shook his head. “You need to get that looked at today. And there’s no way you’re going to manage to walk out of here.”

Hands planted on her hips, she stared him down. “What do you suggest then? I can’t exactly teleport out of here. Trust me, if I could, I’d’ve done that as soon as I hurt my ankle.”

There went the corners of his mouth tugging up again. Dammit. If he laughed at her, she was going to slap him.

He turned so his back was to her and crouched down. “Hop on. I’ll carry you back.”

Her eyes bugged out. “What?”

“Hop on.” He glanced back at her. “I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”

“No.” There was no way. No way.

He turned, irritation on his face, his hands on his hips. “Layla. You can’t walk. Stop being ridiculous.”

She spluttered. “I’m not the one being ridiculous, Mr. Hop-On-and-I’ll-Give-You-a-Ride.”

Something flashed across his face, but it was gone before she could identify it, replaced with what she could only describe as steely resolve. “Layla.” His voice was low and even, but full of authority, like he expected to be obeyed. “You can’t walk. Either climb on and let me give you a piggyback ride, or …”

“Or what?”

His eyes flashed, and before she could react to anything, he’d scooped her up in his arms like a groom carrying a bride and strode purposefully down the trail.

She squirmed in his arms, trying to wriggle out of his hold. “Put me down!”

In response, he just hoisted her up further. “No.”

Still kicking her feet, she arched her back, trying to force her way out of his grip, and his arms tightened like clamps. “What is your problem? Let me go.”

He stopped, his blue eyes boring into hers making her still in his arms. “Look, it’s this, which keeps your ankle up and can only help you”—he jiggled his right arm where her legs dangled in illustration—“or I can throw you over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Your choice.”

She spluttered, but couldn’t come up with a coherent response.

“I thought so. Now quit squirming, or I’ll end up dropping you, which I don’t think you’ll like.”

Fuming, she crossed her arms and held herself stiffly, trying to ignore how firm and warm his chest felt through his sweatshirt and the way his biceps flexed behind her back and under her legs. He carried her easily, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

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