Page 72 of Almost Ours

“You’ve already carried me all the way here. Put me down.”

“Your room is on the third floor, Ruby.”

“So?”

“So” he sounds frustrated. “I’m taking you upstairs.”

“I can walk just fine!”

“Can you?”

The question is annoying enough that I loosen my arms and start wriggling to get down. “Put me down and I’ll prove it.”

“Stop moving.”

“I’m trying to get off.”

“And I’m trying not to drop you, you stubborn little thing.” His hands tighten beneath my thighs as I shift, and I go still when the movement pulls my chest closer against his back.

“Fine.” I growl. “Then lower me.”

Josh bends until my trainers touch the pavement, keeping hold of me until I’ve moved both feet beneath me. When he straightens, I take a careful step away from him and roll my left ankle once, then bend my knee. The ache is still there, sitting high behind my thigh now rather than running all the way down my leg, but it’s nowhere near as sharp as it was outside The Shed. “See? I’m fine.”

“You’ve only taken one bloody step!”

I take another, schooling my features when pain shoots up the back of my leg.

“Ruby.” Josh snaps my name, his jaw tightening as he watches the way I favour my right side. “You are limping. Just let me carry you up.”

Should I be impressed by this? Should it feel romantic? I don’t know, but it does. I mean, I don’t think being carried upstairs is particularly swoon-worthy in itself, and definitely not because I’m incapable of dragging myself up three flights if I have to, but because Josh looks genuinely irritated by the idea of me hurting when he could do something about it.

“I can manage,” I tell him, although it comes out softer than before.

His eyes stay on my leg. “You shouldn’t have to manage it when I’m standing right here.”

“You shouldn’t have had to carry me at all.”

“Just let me take you up,” his voice is almost begging. “Then I’ll go get your phone.”

He’s called me stubborn but he’s clearly just as bad. “If you are insistent on helping me, go and get my phone. I’ll get upstairs and pop the kettle on so you can have a cuppa when you get back.”

His jaw works once, and I can tell he hates this compromise even though it is objectively the sensible one. “Fine,” he slowly relents. “But if you get halfway up and your leg goes again, you sit down and wait for me to come back.”

“I will.” I turn towards the entrance and take the first few steps carefully, forcing myself not to favour my right side too much because I can still feel his attention on me.

By the time I reach the doors, I glance back. Josh is still standing where I left him. He holds his hands up. “I’m only making sure you don’t stack it.”

“I’m alright.” I swipe the keyguard. “I’ll see you in a minute.” Looking back, Josh doesn’t move. “You do not have to wait until I am inside the door.”

“Just humour me.”

“Have you come across a serial killer in your time or something? What do you think could possibly happen—” A violent bang cracks above my head before I finish the sentence, loud enough that every muscle in my body seizes at once. I scream and duck, both hands flying over my head as something scrapes hard against the glass above me.

I don’t get time work out what the hell has happened, before Josh is moving. “Fuck!” He reaches me in a few strides, one hand catching around my upper arm while the other braces across my back as he pulls me away from the wall.

My bad leg twists under me when I stumble into him, fingers gripping the front of his jacket while my heart pounds so hard it feels lodged in my throat.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands, looking up towards the windows above us.