Looked like I was about to cross every neighborly boundary in the first five minutes of knowing this woman.

I stepped out from under the landing and met her gaze. “Hey,” I repeated my earlier line.

“Hey,” she echoed, but with a ghost of a smile.

“I’m Jackson Montgomery. I figured I should probably introduce myself first.” Not that I ever introduced myself to any of the people I saved. I wasn’t the people person. That was Garrett’s job. “Friends call me Jax.”

“Morgan Bartley. Pleasure to meet you.”

Morgan. Perfect. Like my favorite rum, which had a lot in common with the color of her eyes. Eyes you’re not getting involved with, remember?

“Excellent. Now I don’t have to keep calling you Kitty.”

“It’s kind of growing on me, embracing the situation and all.” She laughed lightly. “Lots of worse things I could have been wearing, that’s for sure.”

Crap. Not only was she gorgeous, but I liked her, too. Not many people I knew could keep their sense of humor in this kind of situation.

“Okay, then, Kitty, here we go.” I headed back under the landing. Shit, she was streaked with bruises and scrapes from rib to hip to thighs. Only her waist and lower legs had escaped unscathed. “Ready?”

“Reckon now is as good a time as any,” she called back.

Without ceremony, I gripped her waist and lifted her.

“Oompf.” The sound escaped as her ribs slid free of the landing barrier.

“Better?” I settled her onto my left shoulder, careful to keep my forearm locked over the top of her thighs to avoid brushing her abused sides.

“A little,” she answered. “I can get a full breath now. Thank you.”

Seeing the new gap between her waist and the planks, I reached with my right hand and tugged gently on the fabric of her sundress, pulling it down in sections to give her as much modesty as I could offer.

“Thank you,” she repeated, softer this time.

“Take a second to catch your breath, and then we’ll lift you the rest of the way.” My head turned at the sound of tires on the gravel driveway. A small sedan parked between the enormous truck and the moving pod, then two women got out. One pale, holding a large pizza box, and the other one with a tawny complexion and a bottle of what looked to be tequila, both wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Morgan!”

They raced toward the steps.

“Whoa, hold up!” I called out through the slats in the stairs, sending them to a skidding halt. “I don’t know how much weight that landing can take.”

Two heads popped around the base of the staircase, and I gave them a nod. “Hi there.”

“Mr. Carolina?” the petite one asked, her jaw dropping.

Mr. What?

“Uh. Not the last time I checked. Then again, I don’t really run in the pageant circuits,” I answered. The tequila-toting one came over to see my hands locked firmly on the tops of Morgan’s thighs—one over and one under her dress. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, mine are a little full at the moment.”