She blinks three times before faint lines sprout from her tiny nose. “You’d do that for me?”
I downplay the shock in her tone, hating that my outburst last night led her to mistake our friendship. “I’m offering to shave your legs, freckles. It’s not a proposal of marriage.”
She stares at me as if even allowing for her to use the bathroom before me is too much to sacrifice. I hate how mammoth a simple offer is to her. I thought she knew she could ask me for anything.
Clearly, I was wrong.
“Or you can rock the hairy look. I’ve heard rumors Bigfoot is seeking a mate?—”
She whacks me in the chest before all my reply leaves my mouth. Then she swallows harshly when I move for the bag I gestured to a second ago.
Her swollen belly shifts as quickly as her throat when I grab the towel I used after my shower and fill a canister with warm water. As I enter the suite, I suggest she scoot back against the headboard and extend her legs in front of her.
Her frustration is clear when she responds to my command before she can think of a reply, reinforcing my determination to help.
Macy has always been independent, so it’s tough for her to ask for help. Even when inundated, she acts as if everything is fine.
Starting at her ankle, I gradually work my way up her leg, gently applying a thick layer of shaving cream to her silky skin. As I glide the razor toward the hem of her gown, I notice the slight tremor in her muscles. It isn’t a fear-based shake. She relaxes more and more with each passing minute. It is an unwanted response to a rapid heart rate.
How do I know this? My left hand is facing the same shuddering consequence, and it’s nowhere near the razor-sharp edge of a razor blade.
I never expected shaving a woman’s legs to feel so intimate, but this is the most personal act I’ve experienced in over seventeen years.
After I shave Macy’s left leg, I shave her right leg with the same care. Macy watches me, her eyes filled with gratitude and another gleam I can’t place. It’s a look that floods my head with a hundred questions and forces me to remind myself to stay focused.
I’ll never forgive myself if I nick her, especially so soon after being rewarded a trust I’m confident she hasn’t given anyone in an extremely long time.
Once I remove the few stubborn hairs behind her knees, I wipe away the remaining shaving cream with my slightly damp towel. Goose bumps follow the path of my hands, and they reflect the same glint I noticed earlier—except this time, it shines from my eyes instead of Macy’s.
“There you go. All done.” My words are deep since I had to force them through a thickened tongue. My body is acting as if it is doing something far more perilous than shaving a friend’s legs.
After returning my stare long enough to leave no doubt of the ownership in the bright gleam reflecting in her light eyes, Macy peers down at her smooth legs. A breathtaking smile spreads across her face, and then she murmurs, “I feel so much better. Thank you, Grayson.”
You have no idea how much it means to me that she saysshefeels better, not her legs.
Comments like that are how I’ve stayed in this industry for so long. It isn’t solely about helping the victims. It is also about supporting their families through one of the most difficult times in their lives and ensuring they emerge from the wreckage unscathed.
“You’re welcome.” I stand before gathering up the razor, shaving cream, and hair-riddled water. Then I enter the bathroom, where I stare at my reflection, puzzled by the unruffled image projecting back at me.
I don’t appear as lost or empty as I usually do, and the shock of my guiltless expression’s unexpected arrival has me recalling a quote my mother has often preached.
Only people who love strongly can suffer great sorrow, but that same necessity of love is what will ultimately heal them.
I never understood what she was saying until now, and although it should riddle me with regret, it barely breaks through the happiness that hits me when I spot Macy in the fogged vanity mirror. Her dress hem whips up around her smooth thighs when she swivels side to side, her happiness growing with every silky, frictionless glide it completes.
Her smile suggests that a hair-free existence is the key to happiness. She could be on to something. Her joy is addictive, and before I can talk myself out of it, I make a mental note topick up one of those fancy leg-shaving razors the next time I do a grocery run, and to block out an hour of my day every third day for the next six weeks.
12
MACY
By the time Grayson and I make it downstairs, the fundraising gala is in full swing. The delay in our attendance isn’t solely due to Grayson making my legs feel as silky smooth as fresh sheets on a humid summer’s day. It is also from him ensuring his chin is as glossy as his attention made both my legs and my panties.
I won’t lie. My thighs pressed together on more than one occasion when I noticed how close the razor got to Grayson’s mouth. It was intimately close to my skin only a minute earlier, and it had my mind running away on me on how friction-free certain areas of our bodies would be if they were ever to mesh.
Thankfully, I’d snapped myself out of my uncalled-for thoughts before Grayson left the bathroom. Now is not the time to have inappropriate musings about a colleague and friend. My focus should be solely on the fundraising gala keeping my missing sister’s legacy alive.
It comes before anything.
