Sitting there like an idiot, I just stare at him. He continues, “I’ll make you something to eat while you bathe, and once you’re fed, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
I nod because I don’t know how else to respond.
He reaches for my hand, and I take his. Instead of pulling me to my feet though, he scoops his arms under mine and lifts me again. This time, I don’t tense—I melt. I let my head fall into the crook of his neckand breathe deeply. The subtle scent of sweat and pine hit my nose, and I practically moan into his skin.
His breath halts at the sound, his muscles stiffening almost imperceptibly, but he continues to the bathroom as if nothing happened.
Setting me on a plush carpet in the center of a huge bathroom, he walks to the porcelain, free-standing tub under a large window that faces the redwood forest. The tub is big enough for two people—that doesn’t go unnoticed.
He turns on the spout and tests the temperature with his hand. I watch him with curiosity and something else I can’t, or won’t, name. I chalk the intense feelings up to being shot. Again.
As the tub fills, he walks back to me and crouches down. He studies my tired, and likely scratched, face. “Do you need me to help you get undressed?”
I can’t read his tone, but it almost seems like he’s uncomfortable. That can’t be. He’s the cockiest bastard I’ve ever met.
I shake my head. “I can do it,” I say, my voice a bit scratchy.
He stands. I reach for the bottom of my torn shirt and wince trying to raise it over my head.
Owen frowns down at me.
Switching strategies, I drop my arms, first trying to free my injured arm.
I know I can manage it, but Owen doesn’t wait to find out. He bends over, taking the bottom of my shirt and slips it off my good arm then over my head, and finally he gently tugs it down my injured arm.
“Thanks,” I mumble, fumbling with the bloody bandage.
He crouches, helping me untie it. He’s careful and gentle. The fabric sticks a little to the drying blood, and I flinch as he peels it away from the laceration.
“Sorry,” he whispers. His fingers trace the outline of the injury, assessing it. I close my eyes, not because it’s painful but because the touch feels good. His fingers trail up my arm to my shoulder and halt.
My eyes fly open and find him staring in horror at my scarred shoulder.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
How could I have forgotten about my bullet wound? I quickly search for some explanation and land on, “I also got shot when my father was murdered.”
His eyes dart to mine, and inwardly I know that the scar looks too new, but it’s the only thing I can think of as an excuse for its presence.
He glances at the mark and runs his fingers along the raised edges of it. I expect pain, real or phantom, but it doesn’t come. I only feel his featherlight touch. Soothing. Comforting.
When he stops, I realize my eyes are closed again. This time, I open them slowly.
Owen’s gaze pierces right through me, and I hold my breath. I expected pity. That’s most people’s reaction to my past—my visible and invisible scars. It’s not what I find when Owen looks at me, though. It’s more like grief and awe. But that can’t be correct.
“Do you want to take a bath with your bra on?” he asks, and I’m brought back to the reality that I’m half-naked.
I look down at my sports bra and groan when I realize there’s no way I’m getting the thing off without help.
“I can cut it off if you want,” he offers with a chuckle.
“Get the scissors.”
He raises a brow.
“It’s gross, and I want it off,” I explain, suddenly not caring that my fake boss is about to tear off my clothes with scissors.
I want to rid myself of all the swirling feelings, even though I know cutting off a bra won’t do that.
