I whip my head around. "That's deranged."
"Probably."
"Pervert."
"I'd say hopeless romantic."
A laugh breaks out of me before I remember to resist.
"We've swapped so much DNA we could pass for one by now," he says and reaches for the shampoo, pumping it into his hands. "Turn around. I'm washing your hair."
I narrow my eyes but do as he says, and mutter: "You just want to boss me around."
"No. I want to take care of you when you're in pain," he says firmly.
He starts massaging my scalp, and instantly, I melt. Worse, I purr, embarrassingly loud as my head tips back, surrendering to his fingers.
"Okay, fine. This isn't bad."
He rinses my hair gently and starts braiding my hair with so much precision I'm left in awe. Then he plants another kiss from his height on the top of my head and he's done.
I turn around to face him and drag the braid to the front, checking it. "Pretty solid. Mara made sure you wouldn't embarrass her, didn't she?"
"Told you. I'm not scared of wars." His huge palm shoots up between us. "Hand."
I stall because I still don't get what he's doing here.
He clicks his tongue, growing impatient. "I said hand."
When my tiny palm lands in his, it practically vanishes.
His fingers fold around mine, and he starts pressing along the base of my palm, hitting all the acupressure points.
"Oh. That feels so good. What woman taught you this one?"
He snorts a knowing laugh. "No woman, don't worry. Doctor training."
I watch him work. "You have ridiculously elegant fingers, you know that?"
He smirks at me through wet lashes that make his eyes even darker, more lethal. "Are you trying to flirt with me while I'm fixing you, Emma?"
I bite my lip, stealing a look.
Big mistake.
His naked body glistens under the steamy spray that slides down, across his broad chest and that merciless six-pack, and then further, where he hangs against his thigh, heavy and indecent, like he’s always one second from being ready. Alwaysmeaty, distracting, plotting against my nervous system. Honestly, no idea how he stuffs that in his pants. Must be sorcery.
I clear my throat, trying to scrape composure into my voice. "Do your patients ever flirt with you?"
Damnit, he didn't even reply and I'm already feeling the sting. I bet they do. I totally would.
"Sometimes," he admits.
"Young? Old?" I pry, trying to mask it as innocent curiosity. Based on his expression, it isn't working.
"Both." He smiles.
"How do you handle it? Smile politely? Keep your hands professional?"
