possibly some other things if you play your cards right. “Oh, really?”
He nodded. “My dad’s into history. He has hundreds of books on it, and I started eating them up when I was a kid.”
“Same here.” I chuckled. “My teachers hated the fact that I read so damned much.”
“Yours too?” Ryan shook his head, grinning mischievously. “Guess they didn’t like us learning enough to argue with them.”
“Yes.” I smacked my palm on the table beside my coffee cup. “Exactly. You did that too?”
“All the fucking time. I once got detention in seventh grade for insisting that the Boston Tea Party was an act of economic terrorism.”
“Oh, yeah?” I folded my hands—well, put my uninjured hand over the top of the cast—and leaned forward. “I can do you one better than that.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“So my sophomore year in high school, we were talking about the War of 1812 . . .”
The coffee got cold. The food that eventually arrived mostly went untouched. Truth be told, I forgot there was food on the table at all until Ryan made an animated gesture during one story and almost knocked his soda into his lap.
By eight thirty, the waitresses were giving us dirty looks, so I paid the bill and we headed out. In the parking lot, Ryan started the truck, but he didn’t put it in gear. “As long as you’re out of the apartment, do you need to do anything else? Stock the refrigerator or anything?”
I was still a bit sore from being up and around earlier. Going home and relaxing was probably the best thing for me right now. And a pain pill. God, yes, a pain pill.
On the other hand, running a couple of errands was an excuse to put off facing those six flights of stairs for a little while. I also didn’t want to impose on Brad, especially since he’d already insisted on buying far too many groceries for me to ask him to make this week’s run. And we were already out and about. And though I needed to put up my leg and throw back a pain pill, for some reason I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet.
“I could probably stand to grab a few groceries. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” He put the truck in reverse and rested his hand across the back of my seat as he backed out of the space. “Any particular grocery store preference?”
“Nah. I’m easy.”
Ryan glanced at me, an eyebrow raised in Did you really just say that? fashion.
I groaned. “You know what I mean.”
Chuckling, he shifted gears again.
“Very funny,” I muttered. “So is this all part of your secret plan to keep me from suing you?”
Ryan grinned. “Is it working?”
“Well, I wasn’t planning to sue you, but if it means having you chauffeur me around, I could always tell you I’m going to.”
He laughed. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
We exchanged playful glances, and he kept driving.
“Hmm.” I leaned on my crutch and glared at the plastic bags sitting in the truck bed. “This could get . . . complicated.”
“Nah, it’ll be fine.” Ryan shut the driver’s side door and came around to my side. “Why don’t I help you get up to your apartment, and then I can come downstairs and get the bags?”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you making a million trips to—”
“Don’t worry about it. You need help getting to the top, and I can get all of that”—he gestured at the bags—“in one more trip. And yes, I’m sure.”
I didn’t protest. I thanked him quietly, plastered on a smile, and let him put his arm around my waist, pretending I didn’t get goose bumps just from his hand sliding over the back of my shirt. Okay, so leaning on someone in any way was about as pleasant as jamming bamboo splinters under my toenails, but having an excuse to go hands-on with Ryan took some of the sting out.
Getting to the top of the stairs was, yet again, an exercise in undignified stumbling and swearing. Eventually, I’d probably have to navigate them myself, but at least for
He nodded. “My dad’s into history. He has hundreds of books on it, and I started eating them up when I was a kid.”
“Same here.” I chuckled. “My teachers hated the fact that I read so damned much.”
“Yours too?” Ryan shook his head, grinning mischievously. “Guess they didn’t like us learning enough to argue with them.”
“Yes.” I smacked my palm on the table beside my coffee cup. “Exactly. You did that too?”
“All the fucking time. I once got detention in seventh grade for insisting that the Boston Tea Party was an act of economic terrorism.”
“Oh, yeah?” I folded my hands—well, put my uninjured hand over the top of the cast—and leaned forward. “I can do you one better than that.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“So my sophomore year in high school, we were talking about the War of 1812 . . .”
The coffee got cold. The food that eventually arrived mostly went untouched. Truth be told, I forgot there was food on the table at all until Ryan made an animated gesture during one story and almost knocked his soda into his lap.
By eight thirty, the waitresses were giving us dirty looks, so I paid the bill and we headed out. In the parking lot, Ryan started the truck, but he didn’t put it in gear. “As long as you’re out of the apartment, do you need to do anything else? Stock the refrigerator or anything?”
I was still a bit sore from being up and around earlier. Going home and relaxing was probably the best thing for me right now. And a pain pill. God, yes, a pain pill.
On the other hand, running a couple of errands was an excuse to put off facing those six flights of stairs for a little while. I also didn’t want to impose on Brad, especially since he’d already insisted on buying far too many groceries for me to ask him to make this week’s run. And we were already out and about. And though I needed to put up my leg and throw back a pain pill, for some reason I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet.
“I could probably stand to grab a few groceries. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” He put the truck in reverse and rested his hand across the back of my seat as he backed out of the space. “Any particular grocery store preference?”
“Nah. I’m easy.”
Ryan glanced at me, an eyebrow raised in Did you really just say that? fashion.
I groaned. “You know what I mean.”
Chuckling, he shifted gears again.
“Very funny,” I muttered. “So is this all part of your secret plan to keep me from suing you?”
Ryan grinned. “Is it working?”
“Well, I wasn’t planning to sue you, but if it means having you chauffeur me around, I could always tell you I’m going to.”
He laughed. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
We exchanged playful glances, and he kept driving.
“Hmm.” I leaned on my crutch and glared at the plastic bags sitting in the truck bed. “This could get . . . complicated.”
“Nah, it’ll be fine.” Ryan shut the driver’s side door and came around to my side. “Why don’t I help you get up to your apartment, and then I can come downstairs and get the bags?”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you making a million trips to—”
“Don’t worry about it. You need help getting to the top, and I can get all of that”—he gestured at the bags—“in one more trip. And yes, I’m sure.”
I didn’t protest. I thanked him quietly, plastered on a smile, and let him put his arm around my waist, pretending I didn’t get goose bumps just from his hand sliding over the back of my shirt. Okay, so leaning on someone in any way was about as pleasant as jamming bamboo splinters under my toenails, but having an excuse to go hands-on with Ryan took some of the sting out.
Getting to the top of the stairs was, yet again, an exercise in undignified stumbling and swearing. Eventually, I’d probably have to navigate them myself, but at least for
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