He stands next to me, leaning against the table while the dryer does its thing. I have an idea of what he has planned and let me tell you, I am giddy. My shivering is getting increasinglyspastic—probably due to being sleep deprived, soaked to the core, and in a building that is air conditioned as well as a walk-in freezer.
He stands in front of my knees and says, “Give me your hands,” while he takes my hands. So bossy. He rubs both of them in between his huge hands, then pulls them up to his mouth and does the hot breath thing on my fingers. He rubs them slowly back and forth between his. I’m about to pass out. This is not standard boss-employee behavior. Nothing about our relationship has been standard boss-employee, but this is a definite signal, right? Surely he doesn’t warm up Toby’s fingers like this. Tara’s nasal-voiced warnings about Joe not dating employees repeat in my head, but they are at odds with every flag he is waving right now. I have to ask before I go crazy, and what he is doing at the momentwilldrive me crazy.
Cue me and my giant bucket of ice water. “I heard you don’t date employees.”
His hands pause on mine for half a beat. His dark eyes shoot to mine as his smirk returns. “You’ve been asking around about me.” It’s a statement, and sort of arrogant, like he figured I would.Well, Mr. Sexy Smirky Face, of course I did.As if he doesn’t know that every female within a 20 mile radius is whispering about him.
“Yep.” I feel myself blushing, and the downside of my dark red hair and fair skin is that he’ll notice it, too. “One girl, Tara, was especially enlightening.”
“Oh yeah? What did Tara say?”
“She said that you won’t date employees. In her words, youdon’t sit at the kiddie table.”
He frowns. “I’m not sure what that means, but,” he pauses rubbing my hands and looks at my fingers while he talks, “No, I don’t date my employees. It would be problematic, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Then he’s massaging my hands again. "I don't date at all, actually."
It’s my turn to frown. “Oh.” That's all I can say. I pull my fingers away from his and scoot back on the table. I hadn’t realized how close I had inched toward him until I lean away, sitting on my hands. The dryer beeps, slicing through the awkwardness in the air.
“Hold tight.” He pats my knee twice before moving to empty the dryer.
He comes back with a bundle of hot laundry, holding up a soft, white spa robe for me to slip my arm into. He pulls it around my shoulders and I slide my other arm in. He ties the belt around my waist and I’m in a cocoon of heat and delicate fabric softener. The goosebumps smooth off my arms and my tense shoulders loosen. I close my eyes and moan. There is no stopping it.
He chuckles. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part.”
“Better than this?”
“Yes. Trust me. Toss your hair forward.” He holds up a big, white towel.Oh.
I lean over and flip my hair toward him and his big hands wrap my hair in the hot towel, twisting it into a loose knot on top of my head like he’s done it a thousand times.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” My eyes are still closed as I soak up the warmth that’s radiating from my head to my fingertips. “You could charge so much money for this,” my sleepy voice slurs from somewhere under the heap of hot, white terrycloth. “Add it to your list of services. Hot laundry wrap by a handsome man.” Am I asleep right now, or did that really come out of my mouth?
He laughs. “It’s nice, right? My mom used to do this when I was a little boy. I’d run into her office, soaked from swimming in the guest pool all day while she worked, and she’d take me back here and wrap me up just like this. I hadn’t thought about that in forever, until I saw you shivering.” He pauses to run a hand down my arm, “But back to what we were discussing.”
“That you don’t date?”
“No, about you sleeping in your van.” His eyebrow crease is back, like I’m a problem to solve and I start to feel myself getting defensive.
“Camping.Voluntarily. Forfun.” I emphasize each word with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, I can see that you’re having fun. I guess the shower trade makes sense now.” That comment makes my face heat, but he’s not done. “Where are you camping?”
I describe my usual “campsite” the best I can without knowing the actual road names.
“That’s where I found you the night we met.” He’s fighting a smile. Every muscle in his face is tense and I can tell he’s working hard to control his voice when he says, “The night you were singing Billy Joel and got stung by a scorpion while you were… kicking sagebrush?”
“Oh no. You saw so much more than I thought.” I’m blushing from head to toe now. I flop back onto the table and lie there, willing a sinkhole to open up and devour me. Between the Undie-gate photo and this, I can’t take much more. How many times can I experience this level of humiliation in a week before my brain implodes?
Joe sits next to me on the table and pats my knee. It’s a pity pat, like how you’d console a kid who kicked the soccer ball into the other team’s goal. “I parked and started on the trail not far behind you. I didn’t want to invade your space, so I stayed back.” He lies down beside me and turns so he can look at me. His warmth feels good, even through my cocoon. “But hey.” He gently turns my chin toward him with one finger. “I’m glad I was there, for so many reasons.”
My heart warms at his words, and I’m grateful to have the thick robe and towel as a shield when I say, “I’m glad you were there, too. I thought I was going to die.”
He chuckles but then his face is serious again, his chocolatey eyes search mine. “I have an idea. Hear me out.”
“Shoot.”
“I know you’re having fun camping,but—”
“I could do without the condescending tone, Obbs.” I cut him off, shoving his shoulder. He doesn’t budge even a fraction of an inch. The man is a boulder.
