Page 82 of Colliding with Ten

“I’m done,” I blurted, yanking at my hands to break the spell.

He reared his head back from the shift. “Alright. Come on.”

I braced a hand on the tub rim as he held my elbow. During the shift, my leg screamed and locked, but his arm was there, sliding around my waist to keep me upright. Every inch of my exposed skin went hot.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

With slow movements, because my leg needed it, he lifted me out of the tub. Then, he reached for the towel he’d set aside earlier. Huge and fluffy, he wrapped it around me with both arms.

“You made it six minutes like a pro.”

I looked up at him. “Was that . . . was that supposed to make me feel accomplished?”

“It was supposed to make you smile.”

And damn him, I did.

He rubbed the towel up and down my arms, warming me, like he didn’t realize how intimate this was.

“That helping?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He dried my arms in slow strokes, and a flutter moved in my gut. I was enjoying this too much with a rival quarterback. What was I even doing?

“Um,” I managed. “I think I want to take a shower. It’s been a long day, and I need to wash off.”

His brows pinched with concern. “You sure you can stand? A bath might be better.”

“I’ll be fine.” I clutched the towel tighter around myself. “I’ll just go slow.”

“Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll get cleaned up, too. I’m still covered in stage makeup and hairspray.”

A beat of silence passed as neither of us wanted to move first.

“If you want,” he added. “I could come back after. We could order room service and watch a movie.”

My heart fell through the floor, then bounced and ricocheted into my ribs, hitting every emotional land mine on the way back up. Because I hated that idea and loved it at the same time. And I hated that I loved that idea. “A movie?”

“Yeah. A comedy, maybe.”

My stomach twisted, a mixture of anxiety and want. “I . . .” I swallowed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He looked for signs of hesitation. “If you’re too tired . . .”

“No,” I said, cutting him off, too loud and enthusiastic for someone unsure if this was a good idea. I winced. “I mean, no. I’m not too tired. I just have to shower first,” I finished.

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Then I’ll knock when I’m done.”

He stepped out of the bathroom, paused in the doorway, and looked back. “Don’t lock the connecting door. In case you need anything.”

Before I could respond, he was gone, leaving me swaddled in a towel, standing in freezing, wet clothes, trying not to panic at how much I wanted him to come back, more than I’d wanted anything in a long time.

19

THE POCKET

LENNOX