Sharon Hughson
Amelie Jordan pedaled the familiar stretch of highway on autopilot. Same route. Different day.
A skunk’s stench assailed her. Her eyes watered, and she gagged before holding her breath.
She blinked. The front tire of her Jamison hybrid dropped into the railroad tracks. She veered toward traffic while the bike wobbled and bucked. Amelie catapulted over the handlebars.
Flat on her back, Amelie stared at peach-tinted clouds dotting the cobalt sky. What a perfect spring morning. For a bike wreck, apparently.
She rolled to her side. The spinning front tire nearly grazed her cheek. She flinched away and flattened her gloved palms on the gravel-strewn roadway.
Agony sliced through her left wrist, shooting up her arm and into her shoulder. Amelie gasped, cuddled the aching appendage, and shoved herself up with her uninjured arm.
A black pickup slowed, crunching to a stop a few yards away.
Perfect! She wrecked her bike and made a spectacle of herself. Couldn’t she catch a break?
She adjusted her cockeyed sunglasses and glared at the person rounding the bed of the truck.
Dark hair curled atop the collar of his navy uniform shirt. His long strides shouted confidence, and he carried a medical kit.
Amelie shook her head. Really? Devan Honor witnessed her wreck? Of course, he stopped. His paramedic oath obligated him to help every injured stray.
Like he’d helped her when her German shepherd had been hit by a car during their middle school days. And offered his assistance when her beater of a car refused to start in high school. While she hero-worshipped him, he’d friend-zoned her.
“Amelie?”
“Rescuing me again, Devan?”
A smile lit his eyes as he knelt in front of her. His blue-gray gaze flicked over her.
“Hurt your wrist?”
“Possibly more than my pride.”
“But your sense of humor’s intact.”
He set the medical kit by her knee and held out his hand.
“Is Jamie out of the road?”
“Jamie?” Perfectly shaped dark brows lifted toward his hairline.
“My bike.”
The grin returned. “You named your bike, too? I remember good ol’ Cora.”
He remembered the name of her high school car? Amelie gaped.
“Right? That Corolla that gave my jumper cables a workout?”
She nodded. Most people couldn’t remember their favorite TV show characters, and he remembered Cora from eight years ago?
“Jamie’s out of the road.” His calm tone reassured her. He wiggled his extended hand. “Let me check that wrist.”
She offered him her throbbing arm. His fingers prodded up her palm to the wrist joint. When they paused, she gritted her teeth against the torturous caress.
Devan edged closer.
“It’s swelling. Let’s get the glove off.”
She reached for the Velcro release, and their hands collided.
“Let me.” His tone turned husky.
Strange light reflected from his eyes. A smoldering gaze? She’d been reading too much romance.
“Thanks.” Her tongue seemed heavy.
At his tug on the glove, spasms engulfed her wrist.
Amelie hissed and stiffened. Pain punched her gut. She swayed dizzily toward him.
His arm steadied her, and his chest brushed her shoulder. A clean, soapy scent filled her senses, making her head spin for a different reason.
“I got you.” His murmur whispered across her cheek.
Heat flushed through her. She gazed at his lips—wide, full, close enough to kiss. She gasped. How hard had she hit her head?
Their gazes locked. Her glasses offered no protection from the bomb his look detonated in her chest.
His attention flitted lower. To her lips?
His throat bobbed.
“I’m going to splint that. Then we’ll get you to the ER.”
Amelie nodded but couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. Wishful thinking, right? He played the hero, but then he always walked away.
Her wrapped wrist pulsed like a painful heartbeat. Devan helped her stand. Her fingers lingered on his flexing bicep as he led her to the passenger side of the truck and used his shoulder to give her a boost.
Sweat fogged her glasses. She pulled them off, dropped them on the seat, and pinched the buckle of her helmet. It wouldn’t budge.
“Let me get that.”
With surprising ease, he released the clasp and set the helmet on her lap. His fingers slid up her neck, probing her scalp.
Tingles electrified her nerve endings. She squinted and breathed him in again. He pressed a tender spot. She groaned at the new stab of discomfort.
“I should have asked if you hit your head.” Devan wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I’ll load your bike. You need a doctor.”
He shut the door.
She leaned back, somehow avoiding the tender spot he’d found. Had she done something wrong to keep him from looking straight at her? She tried to guess, but her pounding head and aching arm stole her focus. The driver’s side door opened.
“Jamie’s secure.” Devan’s grin didn’t reach his eyes. He handed her an ice pack.
She thanked him, pressed the pack to her wrapped wrist, and concentrated on sipping breaths as he performed a U-turn and sped toward town.
Nausea roiled. She clenched her teeth.
Do not throw up. Do not puke.
Hadn’t she humiliated herself enough?
Several turns later, he pulled into the emergency room drop-off and jumped from the cab.
Before she could appreciate the lack of movement, he rolled a wheelchair up to the truck.
When he opened her door, Devan offered her a paper barf bag before easing her into the chair. He crouched at her knees, adjusting her feet. Hadn’t she always wanted him this close?
“I can’t believe you remember Cora.”
“I remember everything.”
Her stomach flopped. “What?”
“If it weren’t for today’s bungled rescue, I would finally ask you out.”
Devan’s warm hands rested on her knees. She swallowed. Hard.
“I’m hearing things.”
He smirked. “Will you go out with me, Amelie?”
She nodded.
As Devan rolled her forward, a breeze rattled Jamie’s spokes, and it sounded almost like laughter.
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Spark Flash Fiction 