He’s back in less than a minute and helps me stand. I turn so my back is to him. He holds my good arm to steady me and brings the scissors to my back.
He halts. “You sure about this?”
I nod, and he starts cutting. It takes him a little while to cut through the thick fabric, but once he’s done, I let it fall from my chest. It lands on the floor in front of my feet.
Owen takes a step back. “I’m assuming you don’t need me to cut off your pants, too?” There’s that familiar undertone of amusement in his voice, and I find myself smiling.
“I think I can manage from here, thanks,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.
He doesn’t move right away; his gaze is caught on me. I try not to shiver as his eyes roam across every inch of exposed skin.
“Ok, then”—he coughs—“don’t drown.” With that, he turns and practically races out of the bathroom.
I laugh to myself. Owen doesn’t easily get flustered, and a few inches of exposed skin had him hightailing it out of the bathroom.
After pulling down my pants with one hand, I step into the warm water. It stings my arm and all the minor scrapes from the branches, but eventually I relax into the warmth and close my eyes.
I try not to think of the mess I’m in. Instead, my mind drifts back to Owen, to thoughts I most definitely shouldn’t be having. But the alternative is worse, so I indulge myself.
I think of the things I’ve learned about him. His kindness, his smugness, his humor, his ability to weasel his way into my thoughts, and his eyes. The way he looks at me…
The click of the door has me coming out of my thoughts, and I snap my head toward the sound, my breathing far too rapid for a peaceful bath.
“Sorry,” Owen says as he reaches inside and places a towel and clean clothes on the floor. When he closes the door, I lean back, sinking my head beneath the warm water.
Fuck.
Chapter 16
The clothes are Owen’s, and they are about four inches too long and hang off me like a child trying to wear adult clothes, but they smell like him.
I roll up the sweatpants and tighten the string around the waist, doing the same to the long sleeves of the crewneck shirt he gave me. It’s soft and hangs loosely. Next, I throw on the large sweatshirt, grateful he left it for me as I don’t have a bra anymore.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I notice I have a few scratches on my face but nothing serious. The wound on my arm appears much better, feeling more like a burn than a bullet wound now.
I take a deep breath and slowly make my way back to the living room.
Owen’s in the kitchen, cooking. It smells like bacon and eggs and spices and coffee.
My stomach rumbles of its own accord, and my mouth waters.
“Smells amazing,” I say, falling onto the couch and pulling my legs under me.
“It is,” he shoots back without facing me.
“Ever the egotist.”
“It’s not ego if it’s fact.” He twirls around, holding two plates. Steam rises from both of them.
He places the plate in my lap.
I smile. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He plops down on a brown, matching leather chair across from me.
He’s silent while I eat, but I can’t seem to hold in my questions any longer.
“What the hell, Owen? Why do you have people trying to murder you?”
