“Probably.”
He steps into the shower tray. His shoes are immediately soaked. Then the spray from the showerhead, which is doing its best impression of a garden sprinkler, catches him full across the chest.
He looks down at his now-drenched shirt. Looks at me.
“This is going well,” he says.
And something about his absolute deadpan delivery, and having Leo Brennan standing fully clothed in my shower, shoes filling with water, shirt plastered to his chest, face completely neutral, cracks me up.
I laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that starts in my stomach, bends me forward, and makes my grip on the washcloth precarious.
Leo moves closer to me, and my laughter hitches. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as aware of my nudity as I am now.
He reaches past me to turn off the water.
“Okay.” He braces the stool with his foot and extends his hand. “Grab on.”
I grab on. His hand closes around my forearm, and his other arm goes around my back. I’m wet and soapy, he’s wet and clothed, and the privacy created by the washcloth is becoming increasingly theoretical.
I will my body not to react. My body considers this request and files it under “suggestions I’m choosing to ignore.” Blood pumps to my groin, reminding me that it’s been quite some time since I’ve been naked and in this close proximity to a guy. The washcloth suddenly feels about the size of a postage stamp.
“On three. One. Two. Three.”
He lifts. I push with my good leg. There’s an undignified moment where I’m essentially levered upward against him, bare skin against soaked cotton, the washcloth performing heroically under impossible conditions. Then I’m back on the stool, and Leo’s clothes are dripping onto the tile.
“You’re completely drenched,” I say.
“I’m aware.”
But Leo doesn’t leave the shower tray. Instead, he rolls up his sleeves and positions himself behind the stool, and I hear the showerhead click off the holder again.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Tip your head back.”
I obey him. Warm water moves across my scalp, angled carefully away from my face. His free hand follows, working the shampoo out. His fingers are firm and methodical, starting at my forehead and moving back. He does it the way he does everything: like there’s a correct technique, and he’s going to execute it properly.
My eyes close. The washcloth is still in my lap, but I’ve stopped clutching it.
There’s a knot at the base of my skull where I must have tensed up during the near-death experience, and Leo’s fingers find it. Press. My head tips forward of its own accord.
I hear his breathing change. Just slightly.
Something low in my stomach tightens in response.
The bathroom is quiet except for the spray hitting the tile and the steady drip of Leo’s clothes onto the floor.
“I think that’s got it,” he says quietly.
I open my eyes. The bathroom floor is a shallow pond. Leo looks like he’s been caught in a rainstorm, with his shirt molded to his chest, his pants a shade darker from the knee down, and his hair slightly curly from the steam.
His gaze finds mine and holds. Then it drops for a fraction of a second to my chest, just far enough to not be my imagination, before coming back up.
Oh fuck, I’m definitely not imagining the heat in that gaze.
“Your shoes,” I say. It’s what comes out. Of all the things I could comment on, I’m apparently going for footwear.
“They’ll dry.”
