Page 71 of Burn the Script

When he looks up, our eyes catch, and his voice softens to a whisper. “I’m not talking about the hike.”

“Neither am I.”

His gaze drops to my lips. The urge to steal a kiss is strong, but I let it pass and retrieve the ointment and bandages from the first aid kit. Once I’ve doctored his feet, and put his socks and shoes back on, I extend a hand and pry him off the ground.

“What do we do now?” he asks, dusting his pants.

I shove his water bottle in the backpack and slip the straps over his arms. “We pick up your car, go home, and make pancakes.”

“Do we have strawberry syrup?”

“We’ll stop and grab some on the way.” Squatting, I pat myself on the ass. “Hop on.”

Miguel takes a giant step backward. “I am not riding piggyback like a damsel in distress.”

“If I can’t carry you the whole way, we’ll take it in intervals.”

His groan is loud enough to scare the birds. “Fine.”

After his third attempt at jumping on my back without choking me, we succeed. I hook my arms around his legs and move at a steady clip. While I’m in no hurry to end our hiking trip, I am in a hurry to spend an entire day at home with Miguel, feeding him pancakes and nursing his feet until my flight leaves this evening.

His lips brush my ear before he speaks in a hushed voice. “How are you feeling after San Antonio?”

“Like I’ve traveled back in time. I hate seeing my name in the headlines for stuff like this.”

“I’m sorry. You did the right thing though, after everything Tate did for us.”

Keeping my eyes on the trail so I don’t trip over anything, I say, “At least there haven’t been any other photos. I’ve been locked down on set, mostly, and no one will find her in Walford. I’d like to take you for a visit once things calm down.”

“To Texas? No way. You’ll never see me in cowboy boots.”

“The boots aren’t mandatory.” Movement in my periphery makes me glance up. “Miguel, look. A couple with matching outfits.”

He gasps. Couples who dress alike are among his top ten favorite things. As the man and woman approach, wearing black pullovers and khaki pants, Miguel thrusts a foot high in the air.

“I got hurt. That’s why he’s carrying me. He’s being a good Samaritan.”

The woman’s expression drips with sympathy. When the man gives Miguel a disapproving, toughen-up look, I duck my head lower and hold in my laughter. Neither gives any indication of recognizing me, and they continue on their way.

Once the coast is clear, I say, “Very smooth. You weren’t suspicious at all.”

He whispers in my ear again. “We’d look so cute in matching outfits. Mark my words, it’ll happen one day, even if you only agree to wear the same underwear as me.”

If the promise of dressing identical would make him forget our future’s on the line, I’d swear it a million times over and follow through.

His constant wriggling has slowed our progress, and I’m sweating. For someone who thinks being carried is undignified, he’s been enjoying the ride.

“Can you walk for a little while?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

The pressure against my lower back brings my feet to a halt. “You’re hard, aren’t you? Picturing me in your sparkly panties got you hard.”

“Shut up and walk,” he grits out.

I hum and keep my tone nonchalant, like we’re discussing the weather or deciding what to eat for dinner. “I’d choose the glittery red panties with the bow on the front. The ones you wore on our third Valentine’s Day. Red looks great on me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Graham, stop calling them panties. They’re luxury briefs.”