Page 25 of No One Wants That (Blitzen Bay)

“Slapping isn’t really my thing, but if you’re into it, I’m happy to try.”

“Oh I’m guessing S&M is totally your thing,” she says, wrapping her arms around her body.

“Are you cold?” I hold my hand out again. This time she takes it. “You must be. Your hair’s starting to turn blue.”

She tries to pull her hand back. “If that’s your idea of humor, I’ll walk back by myself.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? Because that’s grade-A humor right there.” I pull the mylar blanket out of my pack and hand it to her. “Wrap yourself in this.”

She pulls it around her shoulders. “Why do you have a blanket in your backpack?”

“Because I’m a sane person who doesn’t go hiking with only a phone and pepper spray.”

I put my arm around her shoulders and help her limp across the last few rocks until she gets to shore.

“I can carry you like a baby or piggyback. Your choice.”

“I think I can walk,” she says, taking a few tiny steps.

“Yeah, and at that pace, we’ll get back sometime tomorrow. Baby or back. You have five seconds or I make the decision.”

She limps a few more steps—her hand over her butt.

“Ow, ow, ow,” she says with every step.

I throw on my backpack and sweep her up into my arms. “Baby it is.”

She pushes at my chest as she frowns up at me. “You told me I got to choose which way you carried me.”

“I told you that you had five seconds to make the choice,” I say, pressing her more firmly to my chest as she starts wiggling. “You failed. I only give one warning.”

“That’s not okay,” she says as she wraps her arm around my neck. “You can’t just grab a woman and pick her up.”

“Oh, thank you for rescuing me, Butch, and carrying me twenty minutes back to town. You’re my hero,” I say in my best falsetto voice. “Is that what you meant to say?”

“Definitely not.” Her lips get a little pouty. “I wouldn’t have needed rescuing if you hadn’t screamed at me.”

“Yeah, you would have—from the mama raccoon who was about to attack you from the bushes. And you would have needed a rabies shot after one or both of them bit you.”

“I looked for its mom and didn’t see her. And the little one didn’t have rabies. It was just a baby.”

“That’s not a thing. Age doesn’t determine whether or not they have rabies.”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you have any water? I’m a little hungover.”

“Seriously? It’s bad enough that you wear a dress and sandals to go hiking. Then add in that you’re only carrying pepper spray and a phone. And now you’re telling me that you’re hiking while you’re hungover and not carrying water.”

“I don’t need judgment right now. Do you have water in your hike master pack or not?”

“Right side pocket.”

As she leans into me to grab the water, her wet hair brushes over my face. It feels really soft, and it smells kind of like flowers. I sniff it a few more times.

“Oh God,” she says, looking up at me—her forehead furrowing. “Do I smell? I haven’t even taken a shower yet. I just got off a thirteen-hour flight this morning.”

“You don’t smell.” I take one more sniff. “Well, bad anyway. Where’d you fly from?”

“Madrid.”

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