He’s picking up used tissues scattered around my couch and straightening the pile of books on my end table.
Little things he used to do when we were together too. Things I never told him I appreciated because I didn’t know how to balance the weirdness of having a man straighten for me—my father and brothers wouldnever—with my unwavering need to take care of myself.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say quietly.
“I’m a figment of your imagination. When I leave, your apartment will be messy again and you can do all of the dishes and picking up yourself.”
I stare at him while my heart does a funny thing in my chest that I don’t like at all. “You’re not funny.”
“I am, but you’re Coach Addie-ing me with all of your walls up. It’s fine. I know you think I’m funny under the badass glare. All good with the Fireballs?”
This man. He’s not wrong, and that bothers me more than it should. I test my head as I rise from the stool. “Boss wants to see me.”
Duncan eyes my dress. Then my face, which I haven’t looked at myself yet today. “How soon?”
I wince, which makes my head throb, which makes me wince harder. “ASAP.”
Duncan looks at my dress again.
Then at my face again.
And then the bastard smiles that dimple-popping smile. “Need a ride?”
“I need a shower.”
His smile fades, but his eyes—fuck me.
His eyes stay kind.
And I know what he’s going to ask before the words come out of his mouth, and unfortunately, I know how I’m going to answer.
Out of necessity.
Which means my eyes are watering already as he says, “No innuendos, no ulterior motives, if you need help, if it’ll make showering faster…I’m here.”
7
Duncan
I clearly hate myself.
Or I didn’t expect her to say yes.
But she did, and so here I am, stripped down to my boxers in Addie’s bathroom, standing in her shower with her, shampooing her hair.
Nothing I haven’t seen before, I said when she gave me a side-eye at my offer to help her shower.
About the same as showering with all of the guys in the locker room, I said when I started to sense that she wanted to say yes but didn’t trust one of us. Or maybe both of us.
“Waverly’s stylist fixed my hair yesterday,” she says, obviously trying to keep this normal by pretending we’re having an everyday conversation where she’s not totally naked and I’m nearly so. “First time it got washed since…that thing that wasn’t your fault.”
My dick is holding the majority of the blood in my body right now, which means my brain is operating at about ten percent of its normal capacity. And eight percent of that capacity is goingtoward suppressing the shivers that come with being wet but not in the direct flow of hot water in the shower.
This is one of those corner shower numbers next to the bathtub.
Small.
Almost too small for me to keep enough distance so Addie doesn’t notice the boner from hell.
