Milly and she share a glance, and her young friend shrugs. “I can message the girls and tell them I’ll meet them later. We can Uber over.”
Brooklyn shakes her head and gives me a top-to-toe once-over. “No, that’s okay. You stay and have fun.” She then accepts my hand, and I help her to her feet and find my arm wrapped around her back again.
“I promise to drop her off and drive away like her knight in shining armor.” I smile at Milly.
“Knight? You’re the one who broke my ankle.” She snorts.
I lean down, our faces close as I rasp, “Sweetheart, it’s not broken.”
“If you say so, Dr. Warner.”
I can hear the eye roll in her voice.
Jesus, this is much more complicated than I was anticipating.
Milly and Brooklyn hug goodbye.
“Message me when you get there and when you get home.”
I hold up both my hands. “I’m just dropping off the patient.”
It’s a lie. I have no intention of leaving.
––––––––
AFTER BROOKLYN HOPS a few steps, I glance down, frown, then reach down and scoop her up in my arms.
“What are you doing?!” she exclaims.
“Saving yourbrokenankle and getting us out of here before the next ice age.”
I think she snorts.
“You could’ve asked. So much for being a knight.”
“Knights don’t ask, they take,” I state.
“How would you know?” Brooklyn’s fists grip my shirt, and her entire body tenses, and I don’t think it’s entirely because she’s surprised.
“I was a Knight of the Round Table in a past life. Obviously.” I nod to my driver, who’s surprised to see me carrying a woman out of a bar, then leaps into action and opens the car door.
“Who has a car idling outside a Manhattan bar?” Brooklyn asks, taking in the driver, car, and me as I place her back on her feet. “A kidnapper, that’s who.”
I slide my hands into my pockets and tilt my head.
“You don’t think that’s a little obvious? If I were going to kidnap someone, I’d probably use a syringe or spike their drink, then drag them out back.”
“Wow.” Brooklyn shakes her head. “That gives me a lot of confidence.”
I spring my arms wide. “Okay, everyone, I’m announcing that I—Travis Warner of King Arthur's Round Table of Knights—is hereby taking Brooklyn to the ER.”
“Jesus,” she mutters as people on the sidewalk mostly ignore us and one guy chuckles. “Get in the car.”
I climb in after her, and the driver closes the door behind me.
“Also, I don’t think that’s historically correct,” she says, arranging her purse on her knee.
“What?”
