From his warm smile and the gut feeling I get that he’s an okay guy, I’m pretty sure I can trust him. He doesn’t seem dangerous. But I still wish I had my phone. I really need my phone, and now it’s floating away in the ocean.
He takes me into a large bathroom with a soaking tub and a walk-in shower. There’s a room way in the back with a wooden door.
“What’s that?” I ask, panic in my voice, my body stiffening as I consider what that door might be hiding.
“It’s a sauna,” he says, setting me down. “I use it after my workouts to loosen up my muscles.”
When he says it, my eyes dart down to his arms. They’re huge. I didn’t think I liked muscular guys, probably because I never dated one. This guy makes Axl look scrawny, which I never thought he was until now. Axl’s arms are the size of mine, maybe even smaller. He hates working out. He used to have his mom write him notes to get him out of gym class.
The guy opens a cabinet and pulls out a towel. “Want to dry off first?”
I take the towel and blot my hair, then my shirt and shorts. “That’s good enough for now.”
“Have a seat.” He points to the long granite counter with two sinks.
I put my towel down between the sinks and sit on it.
“Here.” He hands me a damp washcloth. “Start with this.”
“It’s white. I’ll ruin it.”
“Use it. I’ll just toss it when you’re done.”
I dab the washcloth over my knee, then pull it away. “It stings.”
He takes it from me, shaking his head. “Hold still.”
“Wait!” I yell, but he’s already wiping it over my knee. It hurts, but for some reason, it hurts less when he does it.
He rinses the washcloth in the sink. “Doing okay?”
“Not really. Let’s just get this over with.”
He cleans off my other knee, which is scraped and covered in sand. “Didn’t think you’d be such a baby.”
“I’m not being a baby. It hurts.”
“Try having some three-hundred-pound guy slam into you, running at full speed. Or when two of them come at you at once. You don’t know pain until you’ve had that happen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Football.” He rinses the washcloth again, then wipes off the area just below my knee where the blood ran down. I could do it myself, but I kind of like having him do it. Watching his muscles flex. Seeing the concentration on his face. He’s really intense. And serious. But when he smiles or laughs, his seriousness is gone.
“You play football? In college?”
“High school. I’m a senior.”
“Me too. Do you go to—”
“Lay back,” he says, rinsing the washcloth. “I need to get your stomach.”
My stomach? I really should do that myself, so why aren’t I? Why am I leaning back on the counter, letting this guy I don’t even know rub a washcloth over my stomach?
“You might’ve ruined your shirt,” he says.
I look down and see it’s torn on the bottom. It must’ve caught on a rock in the water and ripped.
“Dammit.” I sigh. “This was one of my favorites.”
