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His chest moves under his jacket on a determined breath. “Let’s go.”
“I can’t,” I say before I can think it through, because apparently I have some self-preservation still left inside of me.
I even take a step back from him.
Although it turns out to be futile because his car is blocking me.
When he simply stares at me, I go on, “I-I think I’ll just stay out here and wait for them. They can’t be that late. I mean, it’s a snowstorm. It’s an emergency. They know that. Plus I think they get really pissed when they show up and you aren’t there. So I’ll just —”
“Either you come with me or I carry you,” he says.
I scoff. “You’ll carry me.”
“Your choice.”
“You can’t carry me.”
“It really depends on you, doesn’t it?”
“Right.” I chuckle, shocked. “Okay. Yeah. You’ve lost your mind. You may be a pro athlete or whatever, but you can’t carry me. I’m heavy and that’s putting it very mildly. So —”
I knew what my next set of words were going to be but they come out in the form of a surprised gasp and a squeak that I think reverberates through the snow-covered woods, even through the howling wind and snow.
Because all of a sudden, I’m not standing on my own two feet.
I’m being hefted up off the ground, thrown over a hard — God, so very hard — shoulder and being carried,carried, across the snow-covered wasteland. All before I’ve said or even attempted to say a single coherent word. And when I do go to say something, all that comes out is more startled gasps and squeaks and screams as I watch the world pass by, upside down, from over his body.
I grab hold of his jacket and scream, “What the hell are you doing?”
No answer.
As he keeps walking.
“Are you insane?” I tug at his jacket. “Put me down right now.”
No words but more steps.
More crunching of the snow beneath his big black snow boots.
Watching his big footprints on the ground, I pull and tug harder at his clothes. “Ri — Mr. Rivera! Put me down right freaking now! I’m not —”
He’s got an arm around the backs of my thighs.
Something that in my utter shock, I hadn’t noticed. Not until he uses that corded arm to squeeze my flesh.
As if in a warning or something.
Then, “It’s not happening. So you might as well shut the fuck up.”
I clench my teeth in anger. “For a dad of a three-year-old, you curse a lot.”
“And as a nanny of a three-year-old, you should know that some battles you can’t win.”
“God, I hate you so much right now. I —”
He squeezes my thighs a second time. “So again, might as well shut the fuck up and let things be.”
I growl.
