Then I hear Laurel in the bedroom. “Beck? I heard something crash. Are you okay?”
And then she’s there.
Thankfully, my important bits are covered in lavender-eucalyptus bubbles. But I’m somehow holding the broken shelf in my left hand like a trophy.
She’s surveying the scene, stepping around the wreckage on the floor, the upturned bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the broken shelf—and to her credit, she doesn’t laugh.
She does, however, raise one eyebrow. "Did you hurt your ankle…or anything else?"
I toss on my grin. "If I did, would you kiss it better?"
She shakes her head. “You’re incorrigible.”
"Then just my pride."
"Mm." I notice she’s barefoot, as she steps closer. Her eyes flick down my chest and back up,mostlybusiness. "Give me that shelf.”
I hand it to her and she places it on the vanity. Then she crouches and picks up the bottles. She grabs a rag from the cabinet underneath the vanity and wipes the spilled shampoo off the tile with no fuss.
I sit there watching her clean up after my dumb ass, and I can’t find a single way this could be worse for my dignity.
She straightens up and takes stock of the situation.
Then she grabs the shampoo bottle, and a folded hand towel and washcloth from the shelving on the wall. "Sit up a little."
"What?"
"Sit up. Let’s do your hair first."
"Laurel, you don’t have to?—"
"Beck, I have a brother and an ex-husband. I’ve been around men too stubborn to ask for helpas well aswashed enough horses asses to be qualified to wash a man."
I smirk and sit up a little. “Okay then.”
“Your job is to keep those bubblesintact, mister.” She says, dropping the hand towel on the tile, and lowering herself ontoher knees beside the tub. Now her face is just a tad higher than mine. Her braid has fallen forward over her shoulder, and I’m noticing shades in it I haven’t seen before.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, as she takes the handheld nozzle off its cradle and turns on the tap. She cups her hand under the spray until she's satisfied with the temperature and then runs the water over my head.
It's perfectly warm. She seems like the kind of woman who’d never let a person sit under cold water by accident.
The water runs down my head, neck, and chest. And I close my eyes, because it feels nice having her here, taking care of me, despite the circumstances.
She squirts something onto my scalp and starts working it in.
Sweet Christ.
Her fingers are strong, massaging as she washes. She’s not playing around, but she's also not rushing, and every pass of her nails over my scalp sends a shiver down my spine. She works the lather from my temples to the crown of my head, then down the back to the nape of my neck, and her thumbs rotate in circles at the base of my skull.
I can’t help but groan, dropping forward.
Thankfully, she doesn’t stop.
At the moment, I’m living a life I do not deserve.
"Keep your eyes shut and lean back," she says, and her voice is low and hoarse, and not helping me drive away thoughts of pulling her into the tub with me.
I hear her take the nozzle and cup a hand along my hairline so the water doesn't go in my eyes. Then she urges me forward and runs her hand through my hair.
