“Just checking,” she whispers. “I don’t know what else to do to make you feel better.”
I moan, my Adam’s apple bobbing.
Apparently, all the blood from my brain dropped south. That explains the half faint. Her fingers brush over my jaw and I swallow, gaze tilting up to meet hers.
“You don’t have to take care of me, London. Not if it makes you uncom?—”
A finger presses over my lips.
She’s shaking her head.
Why is she shaking her head?
Her hands cup my face, her gaze dips to my mouth.
“London . . . I?—”
“It’s okay, Miles. Let’s get you back on the bed. It’s just the concussion talking, yeah?”
No, no it’s really not.
I’m on my feet a second later and being tucked into fucking bed like an invalid.
But the heaviness weighing me down doesn’t let up, and my eyes drift shut before the next heartbeat falls.
Someone is singing. Badly.
The shower is running, and the door is... wide open.
I roll out of?—
I can’t move. The sheets are caging me onto the bed.
Arms pushing and legs kicking, I extract myself from the bed and stagger to the bathroom, following the off-key melody.
Blinking, I stare through the curls of misty steam shrouding the small space. The figure behind the curtain moves, arms up and bent, hand on her head as she belts out a tune.
She’s been here twenty-four hours?
And the place smells like London.
Sounds like London.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get her out of my space, let alone my head.
I’m not sure I want to.
“London?”
“Oh shit!” The curtain jerks as she spins back, arms flailing. She leans too far back and goes down with a thud in the old claw-foot tub.
Fuck!
I rush the shower space, ripping the curtain back. All thoughts of privacy lost to panic. To the sound of her body meeting the cast iron.
Her legs stick out of the bath, one dangled over the edge.
Her curves are on full display. Every inch of her is perfect.
