Stepbrother Untouchable(38)

“How’s your shoulder?” I ask.

“It’s better, actually,” he says happily, “thanks for asking.”

I feel a tightening in my throat as we pull into the shallower water. Nate steps onto the dock first, then offers me his hand to help me get out of the unsteady boat.

“Much shadier under the trees,” he observes, nodding to a hiking trail that cuts through the trees behind the boat house. I look at him questioningly. “Short hike before we go back?”

I nod and smile, trying not to look too pleased.





CHAPTER NINETEEN





“You've got good stamina for someone who doesn't do sports,” Nate observes as our “short hike” goes into its second hour.

“I've been swimming in the pool pretty frequently, maybe that's it,” I reply, though really I think it's that the conversation hasn't stopped. We're high over the Potomac now, on a dirt trail that winds around large boulders. He was right—it is cooler under the trees, but it's still just as humid.

“Is that it?” I ask, pointing to a three-leaved plant at the base of a tree.

After telling Nate that I manage to get poison ivy every other year, he’s made it his mission to teach me how to identify the rash-causing the plant.

“Not red enough. By this time of the summer, it'll be more red and oily-looking. And the edges of the leaves are too jagged,” he says as he bends over to look at it. A pair of female hikers approach us on the trail, headed the opposite direction. I watch them drink in Nate's shirtless, sweaty appearance and giggle to each other. As they pass, they smile flirtatiously at him, but he just politely smiles back before turning to me. “You're good at so many things, but identifying plant species…” he intones in a mock-serious voice as he shakes his head.

“Hey, if that's my weakness, I'll take it,” I reply with a grin.

“Yep, poison ivy, that's your kryptonite,” he teases me.

“What's yours? Intimacy?”

“Intimacy? How dare you! It's commitment. Very different.”

“Oh, duh, of course. My apologies,” I reply, glad we can joke about this kind of thing. “Wait, there!” I say, pointing to an ivy crawling up a tree trunk on the river side of the trail.

“Where? I don't see it,” Nate replies, craning his neck.

“There!” I repeat, walking off the trail and into the underbrush.

“Brynn, be careful! And I don't think that's poison ivy, anyway.”

“No, really! See, it's red—” I break off as I feel the ground beneath me give way. What I thought was solid earth was just an overhang of vegetation. My stomach flies into my throat as I begin to fall, the horizon instantly becoming a blur. I gasp and turn, frantically grabbing onto the dirt and branches nearby.

“Brynn!” Nate yells, and dives into the brush after me. I feel him grab my hand as I struggle to find a foothold on the steep hill beneath me. My feet frantically search for support and I begin to panic. “It's OK, it's OK, I've got you,” Nate says. The steadiness in his voice causes me to look up at him. He's looking back down at me, his eyes sure and calm. I take a deep breath and reach my other hand up. He grabs it and begins to pull me up. “Under your right foot, there's a rock,” he says, peering over the edge. “Don't look down, just feel for it. Just an inch to your left. Keep looking at me.”

The expression in his eyes arrests me, and I still for a moment, then slowly begin to move my foot to the left. There. I feel my sneaker knock against it, and move my foot up and onto it.

“OK, now just push off and I'll pull you up. One, two, three!” I shove my foot down and he kneels and pulls me up and back onto him. I land squarely on top of him, shaking with fear and adrenaline. I feel his arms reach around me and squeeze, almost pressing the last of the air out of me.

“Fuck, Brynn,” he whispers in my ear.

“Are you OK?” I reply, realizing he's landed on his back.

“Am I OK? Are you?” he says, sounding shocked.

“Um, I think so, though it's hard to tell right now.”

“Oh, sorry. Here, stand up,” he says, and I lean to the side of him. He jumps up then offers me both hands. I take them and stand, wincing as I put weight on my right foot. “What's wrong?”

“My ankle, I think.”

“Let's get back on the trail where I can look at it.” He takes my arm and wraps it around his shoulder. I feel his arm around my waist and I'm practically lifted off my feet as he walks me back onto the trail. He guides me down to a seated position and I lean back on my hands as he gently picks up my right foot. “It's a little swollen,” he observes, “but I don't think it's broken—probably a bad sprain. Think you're OK to walk back if I help you?”