Stranded Read Online Free

with the blanket still covering my lap, I sit on the edge of the couch.
    “Are you sure you should walk on that?” he asks.
     I'm not sure of anything, except that I need to pee. Bad. “Uh . . . I don’t know.”
    “I can help you.” He smiles, deepening his dimple. “If you want.”
    I'm not in the habit of bringing strange men with me into the bathroom, and prefer to go on my own. “I think I can do it.” But I'm not sure if that is strictly true. Putting all my weight on my good foot, I push myself to a standing position. The blanket slides from my lap, and when I feel a cool breeze, I know my underwear is exposed. In my haste to yank the t-shirt down to cover them, I lose my balance.
    Drake dashes to my side and grabs me by the arm, keeping me from toppling over.
    “Thanks,” I say as my face heats with embarrassment. But at least I’ve managed to pull the t-shirt down as far as it will go—which is a few inches below my behind. I try to pretend I'm just wearing a mini-dress. Never mind that I practically swim in the thing—at least it covers my unmentionables—barely. As long as I don’t have to bend over, I’ll be golden.
    “Why don’t you let me help you?”
    “I can manage.” That is doubtful, but I’ve had enough of playing Miss Helpless. I'm an independent woman, damn it, and I will get to the bathroom by myself, even if I have to crawl—although that would screw up the avoidance of bending over.
    He steps back with his hands in the air. “If you say so.”
    Giving him a sideways glance—and confirming that he is smirking—I scowl, then take a tentative step away from the couch. When I put the slightest bit of pressure on my bad ankle, pain jolts through me, but I'm determined to show this obnoxious, but insanely hot man, that I don’t need his help. The last thing I want is to have a man help me. Not after the way they’ve screwed me over in the past.
    Hobbling forward, I make slow but steady progress toward the hall he pointed to. I just hope I won’t pee myself before I make it to the toilet.
    “Are you doing okay?” he calls after me.
    “I’m fine,” I yell back, but that is so far from the truth. Any throbbing that’s diminished due to the ibuprofen has come roaring back, but I can see the bathroom, and I know I can make it.
    Thirty seconds later I'm there. Fortunately the window lets in enough light for me to see what I'm doing, and after taking care of business, I balance on my good foot and wash my hands, then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I'm a mess. My hair, tangled. My eye make-up, smeared. My face, pale. Yuck. I frown at myself, then decide to do what I can to fix it. 
    First, I splash water on my face, but the water is icy cold and I gasp as it touches my skin. I grab the towel hanging next to the sink and pat my face dry, then after hanging it back up, I open the medicine cabinet to see if there is anything in there I can use to fix my face and/or hair.
    Nope. Just an unopened bar of soap. But then I think What the hell? After splashing more water on my face, I open the soap and wet the bar, then rub it between my hands, creating a nice sudsy handful of soap. I squeeze my eyes closed, then massage the suds into my face, taking special care to rub it under my eyes where my mascara has smeared. Then I rinse off my hands and my face.
    After drying my face, I take a look in the mirror and I’m pleased to see that the smudged mascara has vanished. And as a bonus, the cold water has brought some color back to my face. Hopeful my luck will hold out, I open the cabinet doors under the sink to see what I can find.
    “Are you okay in there?” Drake says through the door, then knocks for good measure.
    His voice startles me and I feel like he’s caught me doing something wrong. Well, technically I probably shouldn’t be snooping through his medicine cabinet and vanity, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. “Yeah.”
    “Okay.” His voice sounds uncertain,