Rescued By Her Rival. Amalie Berlin
pick up your wounded. Once around the track,” Treadwell called, and then added to Lauren, “Don’t drop him, no matter how annoying he gets.”
“Yes, Chief.”
Was she annoyed? He’d told her he’d have her back if someone started giving her grief.
He didn’t have time to ask, or even to suss it out. She grabbed one of his wrists to control the lift, planted her shoulder a little roughly right in his middle to fold him over, and slowly began to lift.
It didn’t take more than a second for his density to become apparent. There was a moment where it seemed she wouldn’t be able to straighten her knees, but with a grunt and a wobble made it fully up.
His natural reaction was to make sure she really wanted to do this, but even thinking the words made him feel like the jerk who’d been laughing.
There was nothing funny about this. Her butt was perched right there in front of his face because of the way his longer torso hung over her shoulder, and he got a really good view of it, up close and personal.
She’d chosen gray gym shorts that were loose enough to allow free movement—not exactly baggy but not tight either. Short enough for active freedom but not indecent. They were perfectly ordinary cotton shorts, but up close they might as well have been a bikini. He could do nothing but look, because talking had been hard enough when they’d just been running through the woods, but now with her carrying his heavy weight? The best thing he could do for her would be to shut up.
And the best thing he could do for himself was ignore the way her bum jiggled as she began to walk. To walk too fast.
“Not a race,” he reminded her rear end.
“You’re heavy, need to hurry.”
Her voice showed strain, but she still kept going, and any thoughts for his own dignity faded against the jiggling reminder of her femininity taking up much of his vision.
There was a mole at the top of her left thigh, just below the hem of her shorts. The tingling resumed in his...
Damn it.
He closed his eyes to picture less pleasant things. Moldy bread. The smell of roadkill...
They needed to make it around the track once, the regular track. One quarter mile. But by the first bend she shook with the effort and he’d grown tense all over, trying very hard not to let his body show how pleasant he found hers.
Her stride became shorter and her steps less quick. No matter how fast she wanted to go, physics couldn’t be ignored.
Focus on that. Being dropped and her washing out of camp weren’t sexy.
“Easy.” He should help somehow. There was nothing he could do about his weight, but he could make himself more stable and easier to carry. Decision made, he wrapped his free arm around her hips to stop bouncing around and she wouldn’t have to engage her core so deeply to carry him.
“Hard.” She grunted the one-word response.
He was significantly heavier than the pack she’d likely trained for. He was also awkward. This was a harder test than the pack, even at the drastically shorter trek.
“Your dad would be proud of you doing it.”
It seemed like the supportive thing to say. Call on fond feelings, a desire to make people who loved her proud of her accomplishments. And it did seem to bolster her strength, though the grip she now had on the back of his thigh suggested it wasn’t with warm, happy feelings.
Dad wasn’t a good subject. Dad who was a chief in her firehouse. And this suggested he wouldn’t be proud of her or she didn’t want him to be.
This was going to be a spite victory. If they made it around.
She made it to the second bend, and three quarters of the way around the track on determination, but made it the rest of the way with far quicker steps, and with one foot over the line, bent to let him down.
And then kept on bending, to sprawl on her back on the packed earth and fine gravel.
“Good work,” Treadwell said, just as Beck reached down to drag her back to her feet.
She clearly didn’t want to get up, despite how uncomfortable it had to be, lying on little rocks, and he had to drag her.
Once on her feet, he returned the favor, wedging his good shoulder into her middle until she folded over, and carried her a short distance onto the grass to let her down again.
“Still the first around.” He nudged her once again prone body on the still-dewy grass.
Her breath was great, chest-expanding gulps, and she could’ve probably blown up a Zeppelin in one go. But it was slowing. “Yay, us.”
She went to clap, highlighting the trembling, uncontrolled quality to her movements.
“Do you get low blood sugar?” he asked, suddenly concerned she’d exerted herself too much before breakfast.
“No.” She held her hand up to him again, and he took it to help her sit back up. “Just over-exertion. I think I was wrong. You’re not an iron man. You’re that hairy one with the metal bones.”
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