Without waiting for King to agree, she’s beside me, pulling my right arm around her neck and anchoring it in place by securely holding my wrist.

I feel completely dumbfounded and at a loss for words when King does the same with my left.

“Alright, one, two, three…” she counts, pulling me at the same time that King does so that I’m balanced on my right leg. “Okay, the easiest way to get in—wait!”

But I’m already free of her grip and being deposited into the Suburban behind the driver’s seat by King. Thankfully he doesn’t fish for my seat belt or situate me as though I’m a broken doll.

“Alright, so I think the best thing would be for you to stay at the house, Lo.” Kash pulls away from the curb as he makes the statement. The pain pills that were lulling me into a comfortable haze of nothing, vanish. “You can take up residence in a guest room and just chill out for a few days. If you start feeling better, we can drive you to school. This week is empty. We really don’t have much going on.”

“Thanks, but that’s alright. I think I would be more comfortable at my house.”

“You live on the third floor,” Kash objects, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, but I can’t go anywhere for a couple of days anyway.” I know my reasoning is faulty and weaker than my ankle at this point, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to stay at the Knight residence.

Nell says I’m as stubborn as the day is long, but apparently she hasn’t met King or Kash, because compared to them I’m easygoing. They entertained me with banter that at times made me briefly believe they were going to give in and take me home, but then it became clear that all they were really doing was stalling.

“How are you feeling?”

My eyes wander from the guest room to where King is resting my crutches on the wall beside me. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“Why is it so difficult for you to accept help?”

“It’s not!” My reply is instant, my voice high, making King’s eyes swing back to me for a second before he shakes his head.

“It’s those that don’t know when and how to ask for help that are weak.”

“Why did you stop riding?” My question lacks accusation, and I feel certain as he searches my face he can tell I’m genuinely curious.

“I ride every day.”

“But you don’t compete.”

“Who says?”

“Parker.” He looks down but smiles. I’m struggling to make sense of if he’s embarrassed, caught off guard that I know this, or is looking to change the subject.

“Parker has a big mouth.”

I shrug in reply and tuck a few strands of loose hair behind my ear before my hand freezes, hearing Charleigh in my thoughts, telling me the useless fact that playing with your hair in front of a stranger is a sign of flirting according to psychologists. “I asked him if you ever had competed after I watched you do the course last week. I’ve never seen anyone look so fearless and happy at the same time. You just looked like you belonged out there.”

My eyes stretch with shock. What are these painkillers doing to me? Why am I saying this?

“It’s always been Kash’s dream to do this.”

“Why does that have to affect your dream?”

King shrugs, his eyes again diverting mine. “He’s had too much taken from him. He doesn’t need to not only lose my help but also have another person to compete against.”

“What if you did different events? Two of my good friends are going to school to be fashion designers, and while there are times I can sense one of them getting jealous of the other because of attention they’re receiving, or because they’ve excelled at doing something, the pride and excitement they share, is much greater than those times of being green with envy.”

King nods three times, his head only moving an inch in each direction before he looks back at me and smiles his beautiful crooked smile. “Is one of them the friend you’re doing the fashion show for?”

“How did you know I’m doing a fashion show?”

King shrugs that small roll of his shoulders that he does so often. “Mercedes tells me about her day every night while we watch the highlights on ESPN.”

I don’t question what they talk about, though I’m curious. Hearing that they share this time each night does nothing but place a cape across his shoulders in my eyes. A cape he doesn’t need when I’m already working to ignore him. “Yeah, apparently she really digs the fact that I’m taller than most guys.”

“You’re tall, but you aren’t that tall.”

My eyebrows go up, and my eyes widen with obvious disbelief.

“Okay, maybe with heels you are, but normally you’re not.”

I huff a nearly silent laugh and turn my attention to the ice packs holding my wrist in place. Like bandages, the Knight residence has no shortage of ice packs.

“I also have really big hands and, according to Summer, a big head.” The words leave me before I can edit them. I’ve just told King that I have a big head! If he hasn’t already noticed, I’m sure that’s what he’s going to be thinking about now when he looks at me. These painkillers are apparently a truth serum.

“I like that you’re tall.”

Looking back at King isn’t even a question—it’s a necessity.

His upper body shifts back and then slowly forward again. “I mean, it’s not like I look at you and think it’s cool that you’re tall. I just don’t even think about it. It’s just you. The way you carry yourself doesn’t make anyone think about how tall you are. It’s probably the last thing people notice.”

“My dad says I walk around like my head is in the clouds.”

“That’s because you’re looking at everything, and rather than thinking about what is really going on, you’re finding the beauty in it all.”

“I do like to watch people.”

King chuckles quietly, his chin drawing to his chest before he looks back to me with his lips still spread in a brief smile. “We should do this again.”

“Do what again? Try to break my ankle?”

His smile grows as he shakes his head. “Talk. When we aren’t trying to hate each other, we seem to get along pretty well.”

“You consciously work at hating me?”

“I consciously work to remember you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I never told you I hate you,” I object.

“Maybe not in those words.”

“I told you to stop being a jackass because you were acting like one. That’s not me telling you that I hate you.”

“Do you know how many girls have called me a jackass before?”

“Do you actually keep count?”

“It’s a pretty simple number when the only other one is my sister.”

“That’s because you’re usually nice to everyone else. Well, I have seen you act like an ass once in a while, but I can usually predict it.”

“You can predict when I’m going to be an asshole?” King’s smile tells me he’s amused.

“You get tense and avoid eye contact with people. You generally flip your hat around so the bill is backward, like you don’t want anything to distract you. When you’re in these moods, your smile is forced, making your jaw tighten. And you tend to pinch the bridge of your nose, like you’re trying to massage a pressure point.”

“You … I what? I pinch my nose?”

I lift my hand to my face, illustrating the same act I’ve seen him do on numerous occasions. “But you also do it when you’re deep in thought, so it really isn’t the telltale sign.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Never trust an artist. We can read emotions better than those hack psychics at the fairs.”

“I’ll remember that.” His head dips slightly, but I can hear the smile in his tone. “So I saw your work at the restaurant last week. I thought you’d be there.”

“I don’t have a class in the morning anymore, so I’ve been going before they open.”

“You really don’t like having an audience.”

I shake my head, confirming his assessment.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Does it bother you when someone watches you learn something new? There’s a part of me that enjoys it. I like to see the wonder on their faces, but so often they see the beginning and lack seeing the potential.” His eyes are on the bed, making me shift with unease. “Am I boring you?”