Page 24 of Mistletoe and Mayday

His hands are gentle as he eases my boot back on.

“We need to put this on now,” he says, “before the swelling gets worse. You won’t be able to wear the boot once it really sets in, and in this cold...” He leaves the rest unsaid, but I get the picture. Frostbite isn’t on my Christmas wishlist.

The laces pull tight, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming. The pressure helps stabilize things, but holy hell, it hurts.

“We should go to the cabins,” he says, all business now. “You were right. It’s our best shot.”

I push myself up, testing my weight on the injured leg. Pain shoots straight up to my hip, sharp and hot and absolutely not okay. Nope. This isn’t happening. The ankle’s already twice its normal size, and walking? That’s not in the cards.

“Sure, brilliant plan.” I wave toward the endless white expanse. “You have fun with that.”

“I’m not leaving you here.” His jaw sets in that stubborn way rich people get when they’re used to being obeyed.

“Aw, don’t tell me you care.”

“I care about not having your death on my conscience.” He stands, brushing snow off his ridiculous orange jacket. “Can you walk?”

The throbbing in my ankle has turned into a steady scream of pain. “Define ‘walk.’”

“I’ll carry you.”

The words hang in the freezing air between us. My brain short-circuits, caught between pride and practicality.

Night seems to be creeping in faster than it should, shadows stretching across the snow like grasping fingers.

The swelling’s getting worse. I can feel it pressing against my boot, turning every tiny movement into agony.

“I can manage,” I say, gritting my teeth. I push off the plane’s hull, trying to prove it. My leg tells me what it thinks of that plan, buckling like wet paper.

He catches me before I hit the snow, his hands steady and warm even through my jacket. My face burns hotter than my ankle.

“Clearly,” he says, his voice dry as winter air. “We’re going to the cabin, and I’ll carry you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do.” His tone shifts, commanding in a way that makes my spine straighten. “For once in your life, stop arguing.”

“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. My pride tastes bitter, but not as bitter as freezing to death would be. “But if you try to carry me bridal style, I will kick you with my good leg.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” There’s something in his voice I don’t like. A hint of amusement that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with my ankle. His eyes flick from the deepening snow to my swollen ankle, and I watch his face change. Oh no. I know that look.

“Don’t you dare?—”

But he’s already moving. He grabs my duffel bag first, slinging the strap across his chest so the bag rests against his front. Then, for the first time since I met him, his perfect mask cracks into an actual grin. “Time to test my ski resort training. Ever evacuated someone via piggyback?”

Before I can answer, he crouches in front of me, his back turned. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly serious about not freezing,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless you prefer becoming a Bailey-sicle?”

My face heats despite the freezing air. With a sigh that fogs heavily, I lever myself onto his back, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance.

My good leg hooks around his waist, the injured one dangling uselessly. With a grunt, he straightens up, taking my weight along with the duffel bag, counterbalancing me on his front.

Oh, this issomuch worse than being slung over a shoulder. This is…clinging. Like a terrified, oversized koala. To Mr. Dictionary. My cheek is pressed against the shoulder of his expensive jacket, smelling faintly of cedar and something crisp, like mountain air.

I have a clear view of the back of his hair and the rapidly falling snowflakes over his shoulder.