Whatever. It’s fine.
My head isn’t even resting against the tile when the door cracks open.
“Are you okay?” His voice is nervous. “Did you fall?”
“I’m too tired,” I tell him. “I just need to close my eyes for a minute.”
“No. No way am I letting you fall asleep in the shower. Let’s go back to the dorm.”
“Will you wash my hair?” In a distant part of my brain, I know that I would normally rather sit here by myself for hours than ask him for help, but I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed for my future self. I’m also imagining the feeling of my mother washing my hair when I was a little girl and her fingers working into my scalp. I think it’s the only thing that will fix me right now.
At first, I don’t think he heard me, but then he asks, “Are you sure you want me to come in there?”
The cold water feels so good, but my skin is still sticky from all the sweat. “Yes.”
He enters carefully and I open my eyes all the way to see he’s still in his suit pants and tux shirt, which I guess he fell asleep in. He strips out of his pants and shirt and steps right into the shower wearing a white undershirt and black boxer briefs. “Do you want to sit down or stand up?”
“You’re going to get wet.”
“That’s typically what happens in showers.”
“And boning,” I tell him. “I hear people boning in here all the time.”
He grunts out a laugh. “Up or down?”
“Down.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s scoot you closer to the spray.”
He helps me slide forward, and then he sits behind me and my body happily sinks against him.
“You make a really good armchair,” I tell him. “I know you don’t have to work because you’re rich, but you could be an armchair.”
“Armchair for hire,” he says.
A small wiggling thought in my brain is telling me that I shouldn’t feel so cozy against him, but I’m tired and the water feels good and with him there, my body doesn’t have to make any effort to support itself.
He leans back a little so the water isn’t directly on me when he begins to massage shampoo into my hair and I let out a low moan.
“Bet you never thought you’d do something to get that sound out of me.”
He scoffs and then guides me closer to the water, his hand shielding my eyes from the soap. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Clover Rowan Walsh.”
“Does that statement come with a warranty?” I ask. “Orgasm guaranteed or your money back.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed.” Behind me, he groans softly and his hips shift, like he’s trying to create space, but there is nowhere else for him to go.
My head lolls and I smile. I think I could live with this. With someone bathing me every day.
There’s something stiff at the base of my spine and I tilt my head farther back so I can see him. “You have an erection,” I pronounce.
“I’m holding a pretty, barely clothed girl in the shower. I’m sorry.” He sounds genuine and a little uneasy, his bravado having worn off.
“I’m flattered.” Again, embarrassment is a problem for Future Clover.
The stall is infused with vanilla and amber the moment he opens my conditioner. “Only use a little bit on my ends,” I tell him. “It’s almost gone and I’m going to have to switch to the cheap stuff.”
My ridiculously expensive conditioner is probably one of thethings I miss most. I didn’t even realize it was expensive because it was always just there and part of the household shopping list. For the last two years, Mom has splurged on it for Christmas, and I do my best to make it last, only using it every few showers and applying it sparingly when I do.
