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Chapter 45

Chapter 45

I looked up, spotting Ernest’s rugged, sharply contoured face.

Not only did he steady me, but he also caught the watermelon I was carrying.

The scene felt straight out of a TV show, meticulously crafted for the screen, yet here it was unfolding in real life.

He steadied me on my feet and let go, but the moment I tried to move, a piercing pain shot through my ankle.

I grabbed his arm. “It hurts…”

Following my gaze, he noticed my ankle turning red. “Sprained?”

Ernest was close, his deep voice sounding unusually sexy and pleasing.

I nodded, and the next second, he thrust the watermelon back into my hands and lifted

1. me.

During all the years with Conrad, he never carried me like that. Ernest’s sudden princess–style carry sent my heart racing, even causing my nose to sweat.

That was how I was getting a sweaty nose when nervous or excited.

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I could hear the sighs around us from the neighbors and passersby. Such interactions between a man and a woman were rare in a small town like this.

Seemingly oblivious, Ernest carried me back to the yard. As we entered, I saw Fat Jean holding a spatula, giving me an angry look.

“Well, look what we have here. You two are moving fast,” Ethel remarked with a twinkle in her eye upon seeing us.

“She’s hurt,” Ernest said, placing me on a stone bench in the yard, squatting to remove my shoes and hold my foot.

His hands were cold, and an unusual sensation spread from my sole when he enveloped my foot, making my toes instinctively curl.

“Don’t move,” Ernest said, his other hand pressing on the swollen area.

“Ow, that hurts…” I winced.

But he didn’t let go, instead pressing on the ankle bone. “Does this hurt?”

I shook my head, and he checked other spots before concluding, “Looks like just a muscle strain, no bone injury.”

“How can you be so sure?” I blurted out.

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11:40

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Ernest gave me a look, and Ethel answered for him, “Because he’s been a soldier and knows a bit of everything.”

Did being a soldier turn one into a jack–of–all–trades?

I scoffed internally, but Ernest stood up, saying, “Don’t move. I’ll get some arnica cream and painkillers for you.”

He strode off, and that’s when I noticed him in a tight black T–shirt with navy blue cargo pants, making him look like a secret agent from a TV show.

“What happened?” Ethel seized the moment to ask.

1 gestured toward the door, “Must have slipped on something outside.”

“Where did you slip?” Ethel pressed.

“Just past Fat Jean’s door,” I replied, and Ethel was already walking out.

Ernest returned with the arnica cream from his room, squatting beside me to place my foot on his knee. I knew what he intended and quickly said, “I can do it myself.”

He gave me a look. “This needs to be rubbed in properly. You won’t have the strength.”

After saying that, he warmed the cream in his palms before applying it to my swollen ankle, massaging it in.

A mild tingling sensation from where he touched replaced the pain.