Page 48 of Dirty Fighter

Between the burning heat of embarrassment and this other heat that seems to be ratcheting higher through every interaction I share with this man, warming up isn’t really a problem.

Jason disappears into the cabin, and I turn back to the fallen limb with so many branches and floofy explosions of vibrantly green leaves, I can’t even see the center, let alone reach it. Add to that the dulled sensitivity from wearing work gloves and I’m kind of flying blind. But after dodging some sharp bits, I get a hold of a branch about the size of my arm.

It feels like there’s some give here. Adjusting my hold, I give it a hard tug.

Movement!

I think of how Jason looked seeing the damage to his island. And that heartbreaking moment when habit had him searching out his dad.

I want to be able to lighten his load. Maybe give him a reason to laugh or smile. Something.

I think there’s just enough that maybe if I can tip it forward just a bit, gravity will take over and it’ll roll away from the shed enough so we can squeeze behind and get in the door.

Jason’s still inside, and I’m loving the idea of him coming back out, axe in hand, to see me standing in the open doorway of the shed, chainsaw raised above my head like the guy from that cult classic Jill made me watch.

“Rowan! Hold on… Wait for me!”

No way, buddy.

I want to be the one to make things easier for once, instead of harder.

I drop my hips, sinking lower for more leverage until gravity takes over and, amid a series of creaks, groans, and snapping pops, this giant gnarled limb starts to shift on its own.

Yes!

“No!” Jason calls from behind me in time with a louder snap and collapsing sort of forward roll that I no longer feel quite in control of.

Oh, noooo.

I try to jump aside, but the mud has a hold on my boot, and I trip, ending up on my butt.

“Rowan!”

The massive limb rolls in my direction, branches spearing the ground less than an inch from my feet, snapping as the whole thing continues its forward momentum, bringing a single broken spike in a downward arc.

Oh God.

Panicked, I scramble, hands sliding through the mud as time slows and my body goes numb with the realization I can’t get out of the way.

The air punches from my lungs, shock and fear blurring the world around me, turning it over and again as I roll within the cage-like hold of the 220-pound juggernaut who just barreled into me.

We roll to a stop several feet clear of the danger zone. I’m on my back, staring up into Jason’s stricken face.

“Are you hurt?” He’s braced above me on one arm, our legs tangled more intimately than even this morning.

I can see his concern, feel his chest working hard and fast against mine as he frantically searches my eyes. I want to comfort him, but when I open my mouth, no sound releases.

His face twists as he pushes himself up to kneel, one knee between my legs and one at my hip, both hands checking me for injury.

“Rowan, tell me you’re okay,” he chokes out, a pleading quality to his voice I’d do anything to take away… But whether it’s the shock or the air being knocked out of me, all I can do is nod and hope I mean it.

Not good enough.

“Talk to me,” he begs, hands moving over my shoulders, collarbones, each arm and hand.

What happened to my gloves?

He moves each finger and then gently rotates my wrist before sliding his hands under my back and hips. He cups my jaw and threads his fingers into my hair to test my scalp.