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Weston laughed and shook his head.
“Trust me,” he said. “I wouldneverforget something like that,” he said.
“Then what are you—"
“I’m not going to shower with you,” he cut me off. “I’m going to wash your hair.”
I raised my brows at him, eying his outstretched hand like he suggested we run away together with the moon as our destination.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re going to wash my hair?”
“Will it make you feel better?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“No buts,” he cut me off. “Let me help you feel better.”
I had to be in a fever dream. That’s what this was. There was no way Weston freaking Rutherford, billionaire extraordinaire, adrenaline junkie, drop-dead-gorgeous, and oldest friend of mine was leading me to my shower towash my hair.
“Hang on,” he said after he’d gotten me into the bathroom. He came back a few moments later with my modest one-piece swimsuit in hand. “Change into this, and you can sit on the bench and I’ll use the showerhead.”
I gaped at him.
Again.
“How did you know where to find that?”
“You wore it on the last trip we took,” he said, and my skin flushed. “I was with you when you unpacked.”
That was months ago. How did he remember things like that?
“Okay,” I said, too weak to not go along with whatever he said at this point.
He stepped out of the bathroom, and I got to work sliding into the comfortable swimsuit before getting myself settled on the bench like he’d instructed. I felt slightly delusional in my actions, still wondering if I was in a deep flu-induced sleep.
“You good?” he asked through the closed door.
“Yes,” I answered, and he strode through the doors and stepped into the shower dressed in a pair of workout shorts and a white T-shirt, his feet bare. He detached the showerhead, then turned on the water, testing it on his fingers a few times before moving behind me on the bench. “Wait, aren’t you worried about getting wet?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Besides, you’re mainly the one getting wet,” he said, his tone low and slightly rough and just enough to make a warm shiver race down my spine. “Hence the bathing suit. Tilt your head back.” He maneuvered my chin gently with his free hand, and our eyes met from where he towered behind me.
He smiled, then brought the water to my hair—
“Oh,” I said, sighing at the feel of the warm water soaking my hair.
“Too hot?” he asked.
“It’s perfect,” I said, closing my eyes as he worked his fingers through my hair. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“Why?” he asked, setting the showerhead to the side and lathering his hands with my shampoo. He brought them to my head, working the lather into my strands.
“Because you could’ve hired someone to come over here and bring me soup and ice cream. Not that I would’ve accepted it, but…” I was losing my train of thought—how were his hands so freakingperfect? Knots I didn’t even know I had melted under his gentle but confident touch.
“But?” he urged me to continue, his fingers rubbing slow circles along my scalp.
“I forgot what I was saying,” I said, practically purring. “Probably telling you you’re the best. Again.”
“That sounds about right,” he said, laughter in his tone.
