When the burgers arrive, I find out way too soon that I cannot, in fact, handle it.
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.” I cover my mouth with my hand and turn to run for the bathroom.
Shadow follows close behind, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder. “Sweetheart, stop.” His voice is raw with compassion, and the ache in his tone brings a tear to my eyes. He’s so caring and considerate.
“You don’t have to—” I huff, feeling a wave of sour bile rise in my throat. The tears flow then. “I’m so sick of being sick,” I tell him. I don’t care if I cry and get snot on his shoulder. I don’t want to go through this alone. I want to lean on him.
And he absolutely lets me. He picks me up and carries me into the bathroom, setting me down on the edge of the bathtub. I get sick—there’s no stopping it at this point—but now I’m crying, too. Shadow stays with me, holds my hair back, and flushes the toilet for me when there’s nothing left I can lose.
I wipe my nose and shiver. “I feel so gross. Throwing up is literally torture. I feel just yucky.” I start brushing my teeth.
“Come on.” He turns on the bathwater and pours in a splash of bubble bath from a bottle I keep on the shelf. While the tub fills, he strips off my clothes, gently kissing my hands and shoulders, neck and head.
When I’m naked, I step carefully into the bath, him holding my hand every second. “Shadow, your burger’s going to be ice-cold. Go eat.”
To my surprise, he pulls off his shirt and unzips his jeans. God, I’ve missed his body. He looks exactly the way I remember him—his arms thick, muscular, and dusted with dark brown hair. His Shadow King tattoo, his dense thighs, stubbled neck. He is beautiful. Perfect. A man of so many contradictions. I peek at his piercing, smiling a little bit and giving it a wave.
“Missed you, little guy,” I say. Then I look up at Shadow, who climbs in behind me. “Do you have a nickname for your piercing? Do you call it, like, little Shadow or Mini-Me or something?”
He arches one dark brow at me. “No.”
Once he’s in the tub, I settle between his legs and lay my head back against his chest. “You have given up three days to take care of me. It’s starting to become a pattern.”
He cups warm water in his hands and pours it over the back of my hair, then uses his wet hands to massage my shoulders and the back of my neck. “A habit,” he says quietly. “You’re becoming a habit I don’t think I can kick.”
His words gut me.
“Shadow, you don’t strike me as the relationship type,” I say.
He stiffens, and his hands still on my shoulders. But then he keeps kneading, moving his warm, rough palms over my tight, tense muscles. “Never have been before. You’re right about that.”
“Would I be any different?” I ask. “Would you want a relationship with someone like me?”
“Not someone like you,” he says. “You. Only you.”
“I didn’t think you wanted that when I left after the storm,” I say, admitting the truth. “I wanted that, though. I wanted you.”
He’s quiet, and he stops stroking my hair, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight to his chest. “I didn’t know what to say. I thought I made my feelings clear. Maybe I needed more time to get clarity on what I felt for myself.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Still figuring that part out, sweetheart.”
The answer is simple, but it feels honest. I can’t help but ask him about his family, tiptoeing close to the idea of our family without giving too much away.
“Shadow, do you have any grandparents?” I ask. “Did you ever have a close relationship with them?”
We’ve talked a bit about our families, but not grandparents.
He sighs. “Tried to. Gramps on my dad’s side was a real bastard. It’s a miracle my pop wasn’t a total son of a bitch. And Gram, well, she was more of the sending cards for special occasion type of lady. That’s my dad’s parents. My mom’s mother—Grandma Betty—was a living, breathing saint. I loved that woman, and she worshipped me. Sewed all my clothes growing up.”
I remember that now. Shadow’s father died when he was only ten. His mom was a teen mom, so she was only twenty-five when she became a widow and a single mother. His grandmother passed two years ago.
“Been thinking about reaching out to my ma,” he says softly. “She never really got over my going to prison. Can’t say I blame her. I haven’t exactly been the angelic little boy she wanted.”
“Where does your mother live?” I ask, savoring the stillness in my body. Something about the water and Shadow’s heat have me relaxed and easy. I feel good—if I can tempt fate by using that word.
“She’s local,” he says, a slight Florida twang in his voice.
