Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) by Catherine Gayle Page A

good weather. Even if I managed to get her there safely, the return trip to my house was going to be treacherous.
    “Not sure we can make it there,” I said. “How far is your house? Might be better to just go home.” I fully expected her to argue with me, to try to convince me we’d be just fine and I should take her to her brother’s house anyway.
    “Half a mile. But my keys were in the car. I can’t get in without busting a window or breaking down the door.”
    That wasn’t going to happen. No way in hell would I leave her alone in a house with cold air coming in, let alone one where she couldn’t lock the door for protection.
    I turned to look at her, hating myself more with each second that passed for what I was about to suggest, but I couldn’t see any way around it.
    “Need to take you back to my house,” I said. “It’s close. We can get there.”
    Between the angry tic in her jaw and the glare drawing her eyebrows together, there was no chance she would agree. She hated this as much as I did. Maybe more. But then she sighed and shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Let’s just hope we don’t kill each other before we thaw out.”

 

     

    EVEN THOUGH IT took almost thirty minutes to get to Nazarenko’s because of how heavily the snow was falling and how many cars were stuck—giving me ample time to think about the situation—nothing could have prepared me for what I encountered when we arrived.
    The problem? His house was a split-level. That meant stairs to get just about anywhere in the house. In fact, I’d never been inside a split-level house that had a bathroom on the same floor as the living areas. They were usually upstairs with the bedrooms, and maybe down in the basement area.
    This wasn’t going to end well.
    “I’ll have to carry you inside,” he said as he turned into the driveway, pressing the button to open the garage door.
    That much was clear. There were six steps leading from the sidewalk to the front door, and now that I could see into the garage, I could see it was the same leading into the house from there.
    “Any chance I can stay on one floor once I’m in?” I asked, holding on to some tiny shred of hope that I wouldn’t have to rely on him to constantly carry me everywhere in order to get around. I didn’t do well without my independence. I’d learned to get around in my wheelchair sooner than the doctors had expected, and I’d been adapting to whatever the world threw at me ever since, finding a way to live my life as normally as possible.
    He shook his head. “No bathroom on main level.”
    Yeah. Exactly what I expected. I tried not to sulk.
    After he closed the garage door, he shut off the engine and got out to cross in front of the car. I undid my seat belt and opened the car door, determined to do as much as possible on my own. “I should warn you,” I said, flashing my eyes up to meet his. “I weigh more than it looks like, and I’m not a fan of letting anyone carry me. Ever.”
    “Should I let you crawl?” he asked, his sarcasm dripping. He took a step back and waved toward the steps. “Be my guest. Do it yourself.”
    It was a tempting offer, but I kind of liked the idea that he was as uncomfortable about this as I was. I scowled and raised a brow, angling my body so he could better manage it.
    “It’ll be a bit like carrying dead weight,” I joked, even as he put an arm under my knees and lifted me out of the car. I stretched my right arm across his shoulders and tried to carry as much of my weight as I could. That drew us closer together, though, and he tensed.
    “Just be still,” he demanded, all his sarcasm giving way to agitation.
    I grinned and twirled a finger through his long hair. “Is the hair hiding something, too? Like the beard?”
    “Leave hair alone,” he groused. He looked like he wanted to bat my hand away, but his were both otherwise occupied with trying to carry me.
    I released the hair in my fingers, but I wasn’t