“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“Will you come with me?”
“To bed?”
“Yes,” she says, tipping her hair back farther as I pour a cup full of water down the back of her head.
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
She reaches into the tub, fishing out a shower puff. “Can you hand me the shower gel?”
I grab a small bottle of pink liquid, hoping it is what she wants. “This?”
She turns her head toward my hand. “Yes,” she says as she takes the bottle from my hand and pours a small amount into the ball. “I’m almost ready to get out. I’m getting hot in here.”
I pour a few more cupfuls of water down her hairuntil there are no more bubbles. “I’ll grab some towels.”
“In the cabinet near the sink,” she says as she rubs the soap into her skin.
Her bathroom is extremely organized. It’s not surprising that she chose it as a career. I’m lucky if I can find something after opening only two drawers in my bathroom.
“Grab two. I need one for my hair.”
“Got it,” I tell her as I grab two large towels from the cabinet exactly where she said they’d be. They were all perfectly folded into the same size, facing the same direction.
Lulu rinses the soap from her body as I take the seat behind her again with the towels in my lap. “Take your time.”
“If I stay in here any longer, I’m going to pass out from the heat.”
“Sorry,” I tell her because I filled the tub.
“Don’t be. I like it hot.”
I figured as much. I didn’t know a single woman who likes a lukewarm bath—or shower, for that matter. If the temperature doesn’t match that of the surface of the sun, it isn’t hot enough. I don’t know if it’s a hormonal issue, but there is a disconnect between males and females when it comes to temperatures of just about everything.
When she’s finished, I help her stand and give her the towel to dry herself off.
“Do you want me to dry your hair?” I ask even if I don’t have any idea how she does it.
“No. I’ll let it air-dry.”
“You’re going to go to bed with wet hair?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I’m too tired to bother drying it.”
“Again, I’ll do it.”
“No. It takes forever. I’ll deal with the mess tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say, unwilling to argue with her when we are so close to getting out of this virtual sauna.
When we finally make it out of the bathroom, Zoey has the table set and the pot of soup waiting in the middle. “I kept the pieces small.”
“What is it?” Lulu asks as I pull out a chair for her.
“Your favorite.”
“Ramen?” Lulu asks, peering into the pot.
