“Says you. He might feel differently.”
“But when it’s over, and he’s fine, then he’ll know that this is okay, and next time will be easier. Maybe not easy, but definitely easier.”
Following his instincts, instincts he wasn’t quite sure he could trust, Remy stood, holding the big dog in his arms. Hank leaned against him, resting his head on Remy’s shoulder like a big baby. And Remy held him fast. “It’s all right,” he said.
He carried the dog down the hall toward the bathroom, where the water was still running. And to his credit, Hank didn’t freak out, so Remy felt he must be doing something right.
Then slowly, very slowly he began to lower Hank into the bath.
And as soon as Hank’s feet touched the surface, he began to kick. And a wave of water splashed over Remy and Lydia.
He lifted Hank back up. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
The dog panted and whimpered. Remy put him down on the floor, still holding his collar.
And Remy rolled his eyes, took his T-shirt off while grappling with the collar, trading which hand was holding Hank as he removed the article of clothing.
Then, jeans and everything, he stepped into the tub, hanging on to Hank.
“Okay,” he said to Lydia. “You’re going to have to bathe both of us.”
Lydia was standing there with water droplets on her shirt, and only then did he realize that the water had made her shirt transparent.
He could see the outline of her white bra, and that shouldn’t mean a damn thing. It was a sedate enough one, and anyway, he’d seen so many women naked that something like this shouldn’t register as necessarily erotic. Especially given that she was his best friend’s little sister whom he had known most of his life.
And yet.
She was there; he was in the water. There was a giant dog between them, and the whole room began to smell like wet beast, and still . . .
“Sure,” she said, meeting his gaze and lowering herself defiantly beside the tub.
She took his shampoo and conditioner combo off the side of the tub and began to lather up the dog, her hands coming dangerously close to his body.
What the hell kind of fever dream was this?
He wasn’t impressed. Not with her, not with himself, not with the dog.
This felt like a bad setup for an erotic movie. And . . .
No. This was Lydia. Sweet Lydia that he had known forever. Sweet Lydia whose family meant the world to him.
And anyway, there was no way she was having sexual thoughts about him. Because she was . . . Then her eyes met his. And he felt genuine concern. Because there was nothing neutral about the way she was looking at him. She was looking at him as if . . . as if she definitely felt more than he would like.
But how was that possible? She was . . .
It was as if he could see a slideshow of their life, their connection. Of living in her parents’ house, and seeing her atthe breakfast table, smiling and laughing. Pretty, even at sixteen. Back when he’d also been a kid, and he had been . . .
Well, he’d been oblivious to her in that way.
For the first time, he had been living in a house that was filled with love, and he had been focused on that. On healing.
Like Hank. And in many ways, the Clay family had been the shelter he’d been sent to. He had been given cheese. And taught to trust. Even if just a little bit. And it had never even occurred to him to look at Lydia that way when . . .
Even now it felt like a sin.
And the worst part was, he was afraid that she wasn’t opposed to mutual sinning.
Nope. He was putting that idea out of his head forever. She was Lydia. She was special. That was that.
