“But you did do it,” I say, steadying her panicked gaze with mine. The words seem to sink in, tethering her back to the pride she felt earlier. “Just like Savannah knew you could.”
After a moment, she gives a shaky nod, and my own pride for her swells beneath my rib cage.
“Take these,” I say, holding out three ibuprofen tablets to her. She dry-swallows them and looks up at me as I stuff the kit back in my bag along with her much smaller pack.
“Shouldn’t I take my boot off?” she asks. “So you can see it?”
I shake my head. “Not till we’re back down the trail. It could swell up like a balloon, and it’s too cold for you not to have a boot on.”
“How the hell am I going to get back down?” she asks, but instead of sounding angry, she sounds terrified.
“First we’re going to stand you up,” I say, keeping eye contact with her. “Then we’re going to see if you can put any weight on it.”
She nods, biting her lip. “Okay.”
With her good leg braced on the rock, I grab her hands and hoist her up. Gingerly, she tests her ankle, and I see the blood drain from her face. “Oh God,” she whispers as pain squeezes fresh tears from the corners of her scrunched eyes. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Damnit. I glance at the sun. We have two hours till dark, and it took us almost three to get up here. There’s only one way this is happening, and she’s not going to be happy about it.
“Margot,” I say, tightening my grip on her hands. She opens her eyes. “Listen to me. It’s getting late, and we have to start moving. I’m going to have to carry you.”
Her wide, glistening eyes go round. “What?No. No way.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Flying by eagle? They looked fucking big enough.”
I shake my head. “They only work weekdays,” I say. “Union thing.”
The reluctant flash of her dimples allows me to take my first full breath since she went down.
“Come on,” I say, shouldering my pack while keeping one hand gripping hers.
“But I can’t be in another trope with you,” she whines. “And we already did this one! Remember the fire?”
“Did you also hit your head?” I ask, like I definitely didn’t read a Carrying the Heroine trope in one of her books last night.
“My head’s perfectly fine, thank you,” she snaps.
“Good. Then you’ll understand why I’ve got to pick you up right now before we waste any more daylight.”
With that, I scoop her up and hold her to my chest, the scent of gardenias enveloping me like every reminder of home I’ve been craving.
“I better get two letters for this,” she grumbles, even as she settles herself more comfortably against me.
“In your dreams, California,” I say as I enter the tree line.
“Donotgive me a cute nickname!” she warns, pointing a pillowy mitten in my face like it’s a deadly weapon.
I only chuckle and grip her tighter, thinking maybe romance tropes are underrated after all.
7MARGOT
Inconvenient Fact Number One: It’s impossible to stay mad at someone who’s carrying you down a mountain.
From my vantage point against his left shoulder, my gaze catches in the side of Forrest’s beard and follows it up to where a fine sheen of sweat illuminates his high cheekbone. He’s been carrying me without a break for what has to be half an hour now. Is he going for some kind of world record? The Small Woman Long-Distance Carry? Gaze focused forward, he adjusts me in his arms, and the hand gripping my thigh tightens as he navigates some rocky terrain.
Inconvenient Fact Number Two: Being carried down a mountain by someone you’re actively trying not to be attracted to has the exact opposite effect. Honestly, they’re facts Ireallycould have lived without. But my impartiality never stood a chance against the barrage of sensory stimulation that comes with being held by him. Somehow it even drowns out the throbbing pain in my ankle. I’m staring at his mouth in a trance, registering every rise and fall of his chest, and trying to discreetly snort his musky, tree-adjacent scent into my memory palace when he breaks the silence with “Ready for a breather?”
