The truth was, it was probably best that he stay anyway, they definitely had some talking to do.
When Poppy opened the door, AJ exhaled a sigh of relief. She didn’t look happy about it, but he was glad that he wasn’t going to be spending the next forty-eight hours on her tiny porch.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, she announced, “I need to take a shower, I feel disgusting.”
“You can’t get the sutures wet.”
“I’ll be careful.” Her voice was weak and quiet.
There was no way she was up to taking a shower, but he knew that she was too stubborn to admit that, so he had to find a solution. “I’ll help you.”
“I’ll be fine,” she argued.
“I’ll help you,” he restated.
She sighed with resignation. “Whatever.”
They walked into the bathroom, and he instructed with authority, “Sit,” hoping every single thing he asked her to do would not be met with resistance. If that was the case, it was going to be a very long forty-eight hours.
Thankfully, she lowered down onto the closed toilet lid.
He started the shower water, then went across the hallway into her room and got her a fresh pair of underwear, sweats, and a shirt. When he came back into the bathroom, he was happy to see she had not moved. After placing the waterproof bandage she received from the discharge packet on her wound, he checked the water, then helped her stand. He unzipped her hoodie and then carefully removed her t-shirt. Once her shirt was off, he helped her with her sweats and underwear.
It was hard for him not to look at her belly, to touch it, to kiss it, now that he knew his child was growing inside of her, but he knew it was not the right time.
He held her arm steady as she stepped into the stall. She lathered herself up and he stood beside her, there if she needed assistance. When it got to her hair, without her saying a word, he removed the showerhead and gently wet her hair, careful to avoid the gauze, then he put in the shampoo, massaged it thoroughly, rinsed it, and did the same with her conditioner.
All of his energy was being spent convincing his hormones that this was a clinical interaction, unfortunately his head and hormones didn’t seem to be on speaking terms. As water dripped down her naked body, he felt himself swelling behind his zipper.
Once her hair was rinsed of all product and her body of all suds, he helped Poppy out of the shower. As soon as he did, he watched the color drain from her face, and he knew she needed to lie down and rest. He did his best to dry her off and get her dressed as efficiently and quickly as possible.
On the way out of the bathroom, she grabbed a brush and ponytail holders. He tried to guide her to bed, but she insisted on going to the couch. After she lowered down onto the cushions, she winced as she lifted her arm to brush out her hair.
“Do you want me to do that?” he offered.
Her eyes cut to his. “Do what?”
“Brush your hair.”
She sighed as her lids closed. “I have to braid it. I can’t sleep with loose wet hair.”
“I can braid it.”
Her eyes opened as her brows furrowed. “You can?”
He held out his hand. Her expression screamed suspicion, but she placed the brush in his palm. He carefully slid behind her and began to gently run the brush through her hair.
As he sat with her between his thighs, the damp cotton of his wet clothes from helping her in the shower was sticking to his skin and making him feel very, very uncomfortable, but he was able to put that out of his mind, just focusing on Poppy’s needs.
“One braid or two?” he asked.
“Two.”
Using the edge of one of the bristles, he split her hair down the center into two parts as he asked, “Basic side, fishtail, French, or Dutch?”
“Dutch,” she responded, sounding either shocked or impressed he knew the difference, maybe both.
After getting the perfect line, he began to work, intertwining the sections of her hair.
