She pushed her lips to the side. “How do you remember the story of Jonah but not your own name?”
“I’m not sure. I just do.”
Suspicious. What if he was pretending not to know his identity? Because he was a . . . crook? Who’d what? Given himself injuries in order to infiltrate her home? Nah. That was too far-fetched.
“Thank you,” he said, “for letting me stay here.”
“Always happy to entertain houseguests,” she responded dryly. Not true. She rarely hosted anyone.
“Remy Reed?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Can I have your bottle of tequila and the rest of the Advil?”
“No and yes.”
He hitched an eyebrow. “You’ll give me the rest of the Advil?”
“Absolutely.” Then she tacked on, “Six pills, every twenty-four hours until I run out.”
He grimaced. “You’re torturing me.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that because I view you as nothing but a blessing and a joy.”
“You’re about to . . . feel that way even more strongly.”
“Oh?”
“Because I need to use the bathroom.”
SOS! No. Why couldn’t he have mentioned this when mighty Leigh was here to help? “All right,” she said courageously.
“Can I have clothes?”
“Yours are still wet. Here.” She scrounged through her closet and came up with her largest pair of pajama bottoms—buffalo plaid flannel. “Can you put these on yourself? I hope?” It would be hard to look at nothing but clavicles while trying to dress him in pajama bottoms.
“I’ll try.”
“Call when you’re ready.” She bolted into the hallway and opened the closet containing her stackable washer and dryer. Leigh had deposited Jonah’s clothes and the towels they’d used on him into the hamper. Remy slid her fingers into every pocket of his garments, going through them to make sure Leigh hadn’t missed anything. They were empty. Out in the ocean he’d lost the items a person would normally have on them. Wallet, ID, phone.
The track pants and windbreaker were Nike. The T-shirt, socks, and underwear, Under Armour. Everything looked brand-new. She stuck the clothing and towels in the washer and started a load.
She heard him swear.
“You okay?” she asked loudly.
“No.”
“Dressed?”
“Yes.”
He sat upright with his legs over the side of the bed, looking sick and dejected. The hem of her pajama bottoms hit him mid-shin. His injuries had rendered his strong body vulnerable.
She supported him as she’d done earlier when they’d climbed the stairs. Except now the arm she wrapped around his waist was touching bare skin. Too intimate. Awkward and triggering.
It took time, but she finally got him propped against the bathroom sink. “Do you . . . need assistance?” she asked.Please say no.
