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“Never mind.” I handed him back his glass and his pills, not really wanting to think about my ankle at all. Every time I did, I kept remembering the sound it had made as I twisted it back in position. “How will I know if it is? Broken, I mean?”
He mumbled something.
“Sorry”—my voice cracked—“did you say the bone will be sticking out?”
“It’s probably just a bad sprain.”
I leaned down to unlace my shoe only for the world to start smearing and then spinning around me.
“Whoa there.” A hand came down on the back of my neck, pushing my head firmly between my knees. “Breathe.”
“I don’t think I will,” I muttered, too busy flying out of my skin.
But breathe I did. And the world settled back down. And his thumb moved slightly, almost absently, against me. A tiny sunburst that I wished I could somehow turn and gaze into. Soak up its brightness.
“Okay,” said my rescuer, finally letting me up again. “Let’s start with the wet clothes.”
“You haven’t even bought me dinner.”
“I think you’re in shock.”
Iwasfeeling a little odd. Distant from myself. And I couldn’t decide if I was too hot or too cold and if it was possible to be both at the same time.
“These are quite some shoes.”
I’d lost a little time, somehow slipping from sitting to lying, my damp jacket gone. The stranger was crouched on the floor again, my foot on his thigh like Cinderella in reverse. “Thank you,” I said. And winced as his fingers drifted close to my ankle. “I chose them for their practicality.”
His eyes flashed up to mine, amused. And far too vivid against the beard, with a lock of honey-brown hair falling into them. Except then the bastard decided to ease my shoe off. And even though he was clearly being as gentle as possible, it hurt like hell—a fingers-down-a-blackboard screech of pain and anticipated pain that made me hiss and flinch and curse myself for being such an embarrassing fucking wuss.
“You’re very swollen,” he observed.
I gritted my teeth. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“Not for a while.”
At which point we fell into a slightly tense silence. I was hoping he at least admired my gall, but he seemed mostly preoccupied with my ankle. To be honest, I was fairly preoccupied with it myself. Even the way it was rubbing against the bottom of my jeans was making me slightly nauseous.
Our gazes met. Scraped against each other. He’d been nothing but helpful. Yet the thought ofaskingfor more…for anything…made me want to take my chances in the Thames.
“You’ll feel better,” he said, rising, “when you’re warmer.”
He was back in moments, bearing a pair of soft cotton lounge trousers that I couldn’t help notice had been folded into a square with borderline psychotic precision. Getting out of my jeans turned out to be a mission. In all fairness, getting into them that morning had also been a mission, but then I’d had full mobility and a conviction they were worth it. Now they were plastered to my legs, stiff with water and mud, and proving, once again, that my convictions shouldn’t be trusted. The extraction—for there was no other way to describe it—took both of us, involved patience on his side, swearing on mine, and despite my best efforts with the blanket, a better view of my Armani briefs than I usually showed to anyone who wasn’t imminently about to remove them.
Finally, though, I was dry and dressed again. And as predicted, I did feel better. So much better, in fact, that it was almost annoying. It must have been an effect of the enclosed space, but the heat settled over me with an almost physical weight. Not normally the sort of thing I found reassuring. And yet, just then, I did.
At least until I made the mistake of glancing down. “Oh Jesus.”My voice wobbled. “That doesn’t even look like a foot anymore. I have a nonfoot.”
The strange man, whose boat I was in and whose clothes I was wearing, was still examining the shiny red balloon that used to be my ankle. “Do you mind if I touch it?”
“I mind quite a lot actually.” So much that I couldn’t even make a sleazy joke.
“I promise, I’ll be careful.” He gazed up at me earnestly. “I just want to feel the bone.”
I choke-spluttered. “Are you doing this deliberately?”
“A bit,” he admitted. “You seem more comfortable when you’re…” He seemed to run out of steam. “When you have something to mock.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
