“Thank you,” he breathes out, opening the door. Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and he stands me upright. I turn. The pant leg that didn’t trip me is stuck further up on my leg, but I’m anxious to bend and kickstart another flare, so I guess that’s the style now.
“I’ll get it,” he says, bending toward the offending leg. His fingers graze my leg, rolling my pant leg down. “Jesus, Peaches, you’re still soaking wet.”
“I didn’t have the energy to dry them all the way.” I blush.
His scowl softens. “Can you manage to sit on the edge of the tub?”
I nod, lowering to the edge, and he grabs a towel and kneels.
He rolls both pant legs back up, wrapping the towel around my calf and gently wiping beads of water off. It reminds me of this scene fromSummer Stock, so quietly sweet, where Gene Kelly does something similar for Judy Garland.
The wordsSummer Stockpass over my lips.
“Huh?” Liam peeks up at me under his thick black lashes.
“I was thinking about that scene inSummer Stockright before the show starts.”
“Oh.” He peers down at the towel in his hand. “Yeah, I guess it is like that. Are you going to start belting out ‘Get Happy,’ too?”
“No, I’m very against the whole just forget about your troubles and be happy mantra. When your troubles don’t want to forget you, it’s hard to do.” I snort.
“To be fair, you are very unforgettable,” he says, clearing his throat. “Since I assume I’m trouble.”
“Not lately. No.”
Liam’s finger errantly grazes my skin as he moves further up my leg, and my insides scream like we’re a regency romance couple touching without gloves for the first time, although the images this accidental contact is inspiring of Liam rising on his knees and ravishing my mouth would undoubtedly make Jane Austen blush.
I should probably consider datingsomeoneafter this whole thing if my body is this desperate to be touched by another human.
It’s not just another human. It’s Liam.
My gaze drags down past the worry creasing his brow and over his lips, pressed into a concentrated thin line.
Clad in an old Alabama shirt and flannel pajama pants, he should look more like the man I used to know.
But that man’s face was harsh angles and teasing glints, and here he’s all soft concern, kneeling before me. I don’t know. Maybe he’s just getting into character and doing what he thinks a doting boyfriend would do, or maybe itissomething more.
Either way, I shouldn’t try to figure this out on a day when my brain is thicketed in a deep fog and I could fall asleep right here.
His eyes pick up and meet mine with curiosity. “You still with me, Peaches?”
“Still here.” I force a smile that’s tight and unnatural. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, of course. Let’s get you into bed before another wave hits.” He supports my arm, walking me across the living room and into my bedroom. His eyes flicker briefly over the postcards hanging on the back wall.
Ask him,screams a voice from the back of my skull, but the ache in my abdomen is increasing exponentially, and it would behoove me to find my heating pad and settle into bed before doom part two emerges. We disconnect, and I wade through my mess of a room. Since I use my heating pad almost daily, you’d think it’d be easier to find, but it’s like keys at the bottom of a purse. The minute I relinquish my grip on it, it buries itself into the depths of my room, never to be found again. I shift things around, and a pile of books and paperwork crashes to the floor in a dramatic thud, making me jump back just in time to save my toes.
“Peaches, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to find my heating pad.”
“I’ll get it. Lay your ass down.” He shoots a cutting glare in my direction.
“I want to say no, but your stern face scares me.”
“Good. Bed. Now.” He points over to the bed, and I salute him.
Marching over, my feet trip on a cord, and I pause. “Channing Tatum, you sneaky bastard.” I shake my head, rescuing my life source from the abyss.
