Loch guided me up the road. He put bandages on my knees. It wasn’t anythingsensualto him; he was being helpful, Mr. Hero.
Well isn’t that the cherry on the shit-cream sundae that’s been this whole day. Past two days. Every moment I’ve been around Loch since we collided with each other in Cambridge.
“Good, then.” Loch sounds winded. “Thank you, doc.”
The doctor packs up his supplies. “You lads can ride back to the finish line with me?”
“That’ll do,” says Loch.
“No—what? Why?” I shove up from the chair. The cuts on my knees burn, but I’m not dizzy anymore.
Not from my injuries, at least.
Loch eyes me like maybe I do have a concussion. “You are na finishing the run, Kris.”
“Youcan finish the run.”
“Do na be faffin’ around—get in the cart.”
“Faffin’ around?”
“Wasting my time.” Loch rounds on me, rage kindling in his eyes. “Get your arse in that cart and do na go tryna tell me toleaveya.”
I meet his rage. Anger for anger. “Gotta get those paparazzi pics, right? Repair your reputation?”
That’s what this is. What it has to be.
Unease floods my system, desperation to hear him confirm that that’s his only concern, to redraw that line in the sand between us.
Loch might have been mad before.
He’slividnow.
“Get in. The fucking. Cart.” He wheels off without another word.
The doctor is already in the driver’s seat, waiting none too awkwardly while we yell at each other. Loch hauls himself in the passenger side, the whole cart rocking.
I drop into the seat behind him and glower at the scenery as the doctor takes us to the finish line.
The blocked-off two-lane road is bordered by dead shrubs and spindly trees that haven’t gotten the memo about this being for St. Patrick’s Day. A crowd looks on from either side of the road as I climb out of the cart, and cameras flash. The Holiday reporters keep their distance, but they get plenty of shots of me all banged up and Loch hovering nearby.
Siobhán and Finn rush up to us.
“Christ, Lochlann!” Siobhán smacks his arm. “You actually tried to kill him!”
“I did not!” Loch looks in horror at the reporters. “The bastard tripped himself.”
“Do you want me to go tell that to the journalists?” I nod at thereporters. And wave. Because fuck them. “Tell them how Prince Lochlann valiantly swept to my rescue?”
Finn snarls at me. “Do na use that title here! You eejit, we’re inpublic.”
But Loch rounds on me, face red, eyes wild. I can’t place it at first, it’s not anger; amorphous emotions push and pull him, and he centers it all on me.
“You gothurt,Kris,” he spits, like I might’ve forgotten. “This is na a joke.”
Worry.
He’s worried. For me?
