The Long Game (Long Game, #1)(8)

I frowned.

“I could take you.” Her voice turned into a whisper. “I think.”

“You think? That’s not very threatening,” I muttered. She scowled at me for an instant, and then shifted, wincing with the motion. “What’s hurting?” I asked, and when she didn’t move or speak, I stretched my hand in her direction again. I’d assess her injuries myself if I had to, make sure she was okay, then drop her off at the closest hospital for a checkup. She wasn’t my problem but I—

She swatted at me.

At my hand. One sharp and quick swat.

I blinked.

“I told you not to touch me.” The woman all but spat. Outrage twisted her expression. Or perhaps it was fear. I frankly couldn’t tell. I was also too baffled to give a single fuck. “So?” she insisted. “Who are you and why am I lying on the ground?”

I continued to stare at her, speechless. And when I could finally talk past my disbelief, what left me was, “You hit me with your car.”

The woman frowned. “I did not hit—” She stopped herself, her jaw slowly falling open. “Oh.” Realization washed over her face. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” I deadpanned.

“The growl,” she murmured. “It was you.”

“Of course it was me, what did you think you’d hit?”

“I don’t know. A… bear?”

My brows arched. “And you still didn’t brake?”

“I tried to brake.”

“You tried to brake,” I repeated, my eyes flickering to the upscale and definitely not-suitable-for-the-terrain car as it rested against the trunk of an oak tree. She’d been lucky she’d been moving relatively slowly and barely managed to scratch the bumper of the car. I’d been lucky, too.

The woman remained silent, seemingly lost in thought and leaving me no choice but to watch her as she probably recalled everything—at snail’s pace, too. My gaze trailed down, taking in her button-down shirt, pencil skirt, and heels. Everything about this woman, from her clothes—designer, no doubt—to her very impractical vehicle, reeked of entitled big-city life and overpriced beverages she snapped photos of on her way to the office. All of the things I’d intentionally left behind.

My eyes darted back to her face. To the spot on her head that was just as ugly as a few minutes before. “You should get your head checked. I’ll drive you to the closest hosp—”

She jerked upward, bringing my words to a stop when she only managed to fall back.

“Absolutely not.” I placed my palm on her chest to stop her from any other reckless attempt. She pushed upward and it barely took any effort on my side to keep her there. You can take me, my arse. “You’re not jumbling your way into another stupid accident.”

Her chin dipped, her eyes finding my hand. Right above her breasts. She scowled. “I told you not to—”

“Are you lost?” I interrupted her, undeterred by the menacing glance. My touch was purely clinical. Practical. “Is that why you’re here?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why would I be lost? I was parking my car when you got in the way—”

“You’re either lost,” I interjected again, “or trespassing. Have your pick.”

That seemed to catch her off guard because she blinked a few times. I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. “Oh God. Are you some crazy wilderness dweller who lives off scamming bypassers by jumping in front of their cars?” My brows furrowed and she shook her head. “I bet the beard and the accent are fake.”

I tilted my head. Okay, she was either a lunatic or had the biggest concussion I’d ever encountered.

“I can pay you,” she offered with a serious face. “I will if you go away. I can’t afford the distraction of a scammer right now.”

I took in a calming breath. “That cabin over there?” I pointed behind me with my head, hearing my voice harden. “I live there. I’m not a dweller, I’m spending a small fortune renting it. Including the driveway where I was almost run over by you, and the oak you crashed against.” The rooster unfortunately came with it.

“What?” she mumbled, her eyebrows knotting. She winced again.

My eyes shifted upward. To the spot on her forehead that was now swelling. “That needs ice,” I declared, pushing through my exasperation. I released her chest and offered her my hand. “You likely need a doctor, too. Come on, I’ll drive you. Do you think you can stand up without—”

“But I’m renting that cabin, the one right over there. And I did not almost run you over with my car.”

I assessed her for a long moment, trying to discern how delusional—or concussed—she was. And then, without any warning, I moved. “All right, I’m done wasting time now,” I said, my arms going around her back and legs. “I’m driving you to an ER, hospital, or anywhere that’s not here.”

A shrilling sound left her, piercing my ears.

“Jesus Christ—” I complained, and she twisted and turned in my arms. “Would you—” I lifted her up, her elbow hitting me square in the middle of the chest. “Oi—” I started moving in the direction of her car. Something pointy swung at my jaw. “Was that your knee?” It swung again. It was her knee. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” I mumbled, giving up and setting the tangle of arms and legs on the ground.