"I should finish up," she says. "Early morning tomorrow. The shop gets busy this time of year."
"The shop?"
"The Frost and Ivy. My bookstore. Well, bookstore and gift shop. I've had it for two years now." Pride creeps into her voice. "You should stop by sometime."
"Yeah. Maybe."
She dries her hands and gives me a small smile. "Goodnight, Ryder."
"Goodnight."
She leaves. When I head upstairs, I can hear Connor reading to Maisie, his voice doing different character voices. Jim's TV in his room. And music from Lucy's room. Something soft and acoustic.
I close my door and sit on the edge of the bed. My shoulder throbs. I should do my exercises. Should take the anti-inflammatory. Should get ready for bed and try to sleep.
Instead, I sit there and stare at the bathroom door.
The door that leads to Lucy's room.
An hour later, I give up on sleep.
My shoulder aches. My mind won't shut off. The bed is too soft. I get up, pull on sweatpants, and head to the bathroom for water and aspirin.
I don't knock. It's late. Everyone's in bed.
I open the door.
Lucy is in the bathtub.
The scene makes me hesitate, not sure what to do. Bubbles and candlelight. Her head tipped back against the rim, eyes closed. Her hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot. And her shoulders---bare and pale and perfect above the water. Her skin glows in the soft light. I can see the curve of her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Water droplets cling to her skin. The bubbles don't cover as much as they should. I catch a glimpse of the swell of her breasts, the pink of a nipple just barely hidden by foam.
My brain short-circuits. Blood rushes south so fast I get dizzy.
She hears the door. Her eyes fly open. For a frozen second, we stare at each other.
Her eyes are very green in the candlelight. Her lips part in surprise. I can see the quick rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeds up. See the way her pupils dilate. The bubbles shift with her movement, and I see more---the curve of her breast, her ribcage, the dip of her waist.
Heat floods through me. Sharp and hungry and wrong. My body responds whether or not I want it to. I'm getting hard, and there's nothing I can do about it except back out of this room before I do something stupid.
Like step inside. Lock the door. Find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
"Fuck," I say. "Sorry. I didn't---"
I back out fast and yank the door closed. I stand there on my side with my heart hammering. My pulse pounds in my throat, my temples, my groin. I hear splashing on the other side. I imagine her sitting up, water streaming down her body, bubbles sliding over her skin.
I need to stop.
"It's okay," she calls through the door. Her voice is breathless. High. "I should've locked it."
"My fault."
Silence. Then: "I'll be out in a few minutes."
"Take your time."
I back away from the door and return to my room. Sit on the bed. Put my head in my hands.
This is bad.
