“It’s better if you don’t. I don’t mind carrying you.”
After that, she didn’t protest. She didn’t mind him carrying her, either. No one had held her like this since she was a child. As they traveled through the clinic, however, she fisted her hands and kept her arms tense. She couldn’t forget how he’d responded each time she’d touched him in the past. She didn’t want to ruin this. Or surprise him into dropping her.
After setting her down briefly at the front desk to pay for her visit—she didn’t know how much it cost because he handed his credit card to the receptionist before she could show Esme the bill—she was carried outside and buckled into his car. Sleepily, she watched the lights flicker by as he drove back to his house.
He broke the silence by asking, “What stairs were you on when you fell? There aren’t any by my mom’s restaurant.”
At his question, adrenaline spiked, and cold sweat misted her skin. “The stairs across the street.”
Please don’t ask more.
“The ones at the adult school?”
She tried to sink into her seat and traced her fingertips along the handrail on her door. “I like your car. What kind is it?”
“It’s a Porsche 911 Turbo S.”
“Por-sha,” she repeated. “That’s a pretty-sounding name.”
He shrugged and said, “I guess so.”
Her muscles relaxed. She’d succeeded in distracting him.
But when he parked in front of his house, he didn’t get out of the car right away. “What were you doing at the adult school?”
She squirmed in her seat and shifted her legs. Her clothes grew damp under her arms, and her hair stuck to her neck. All of her efforts were for nothing if he found out about them.
“Were you—”
Before he could complete the question, she opened the door and climbed out. She’d limped a quarter of the way up the driveway when the car beeped and he came up behind her.
“You really shouldn’t be walking on it yet,” he said. “Let me carry you in.”
She didn’t need it. Her ankle was already much better. But she nodded anyway.
He gave her his keys and picked her up like she was a “tiny human.” After she unlocked the front door for him, he carried her inside, and she reveled in his closeness. If she leaned forward a bit, she could kiss him. That would probably startle him, though.
No kissing. No touching.
Nonetheless, the pads of her fingertips itched to stroke his lightly stubbled jaw and the strong cords of his neck. What would it feel like to run her fingers through his hair? The strands were thicker and darker than her own, and some of the uneven locks fell beneath his jaw. She stopped herself before she touched the ends.
“You need a haircut.”
He sent her a wry look. “I know.”
“I can do it. I know how. I used to cut hair for my cousins. I’m good at it,” she said, but then she held her breath. Was getting his hair cut at home too unclassy for him? Maybe she shouldn’t have offered.
He paused in the hallway and considered her. “You’d cut my hair for me?”
“Of course.”
“You have to do it a certain way.”
“Show me a picture. If I see it, I can do it.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he carried her into her room instead. After setting her on the couch, he asked, “Will you cut my hair tomorrow morning? Please?”
She bit her lip, but that couldn’t stop the wide smile from spreading across her face. “I’m happy to do it.”