It’s heaven.
"So you've done this before?” I ask.
"My ex-husband," she says, after a pause. Her voice is even. Maybe too even. "Broke his arm on a ski trip with his workbuddies a couple years back. Couldn't lift it over his head for weeks. I bathed him every night."
I open my eyes.
She's right there, her face close, but she's not looking at me. Her eyes are focused on a spot on the rim of the tub somewhere near my elbow.
"Found out a year later it wasn't a work trip he was on.” She continues. "He was with his assistant. The broken arm was real, the story around it wasn't. I spent all that time taking care of him after he'd been with her, and I had no clue."
Her green eyes finally move to mine. There's no tears in them. Whatever crying she did about this, was probably a long time ago.
"That was the first lie I caught," she says. "But there were many more."
"Laurel."
She shrugs, shaking her head, as if to just drop it. Then turns away, squeezing water from my hair. She takes the washcloth and sprays water on it, then lathers it with some soap.
She presses the cloth to my shoulder and rubs.
“You know I’m not doing this on purpose, right?”
“Doing what?”
“Falling all over myself, just so you’ll help me.”
She furrows her brow. “I know. You have too much pride for that.”
I chuckle. “I’m glad someone thinks so.”
The washcloth is warm and pleasantly rough, as she runs the cloth down my arm, my hand, and then even lifts it up to get my armpit. She reaches across to get the other arm, and I’m just trying to enjoy it while I can and not think about her body right in front of me.
Then she heads down the slope of my pecs, and I take in an unsteady breath.
She moves the cloth across my chest, over my ribs, and I’m tracking her progress with the kind of focus I used to reserve for hitting marks at full gallop on a movie set.
Her knuckles graze the line of hair just above my navel, at the edge of the bubbles, and if she’s not careful, those bubbles won’t be able to hide what’s underneath much longer.
Her other hand is braced on the rim of the tub near my shoulder, and she's leaning in—her braid swinging forward against my arm.
I can feel her breath on my face.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, and now I’mrockhard.
I want to tilt my face toward her so badly my whole body is one massive ache.
But I told myself I'd let her come to me, and I am, somehow, going to be a man of my word.
Her tongue touches her lower lip once before she straightens, and I fight the shudder. She wrings the cloth out and lays it on the rim of the tub.
"I’m sure you can manage the rest," she says. She pulls a towel off the bar as she turns, and lays it near me. "Holler, if you need help getting out."
"Laurel."
She turns back for a moment.
“Thanks,” I say.
