“I think I’ll be able to make it up the stairs by myself. It might be slow but I have a little extra wiggle room now. It would help if I opened the zipper too.” “It’s not going to”—he shoved a hand through his hair—“fall off?” “Hardly. I’m strapped into this thing five ways to the weekend.” Another hand through his hair. “I can carry you.” “Oh, I’m aware,” I said. He blew out an impatient breath and knelt down beside me, saying, “Pull up your skirt.” It was my turn to blink at him. “What?” “You’re not taking the stairs in these shoes.” He slipped his hand under my skirt and circled my ankle.
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