I’m stuck in the bathtub.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again. Then I hear his footsteps in my bedroom and a knock on the bathroom door.
“Jasmine?”
“I can’t get out. My arm isn’t strong enough.”
A pause. “I’m coming in.”
The door opens. Antonio steps inside and stops, his eyes moving over me. He doesn’t pretend he isn’t looking. His gaze travels from my face to the water and back up again, and the lines of his face harden.
He moves closer, rolling up his sleeves. “Give me your hand.”
I reach up and he takes my uninjured hand in his, bracing my shoulder with his other hand near my armpit. He hauls me up slowly, his grip firm as I find my footing on the slick porcelain.
Then the arm holding my hand slides to my waist to steady me. Water sluices off my body while I stand in the tub, completely exposed.
He reaches for the heated towel hanging on the rack and wraps it around me without comment. His hands linger on my waist for a moment longer.
“You’re showing,” he says.
Heat floods my cheeks, but not from embarrassment. Pride, maybe. Wonder at what my body is doing. “Barely.”
“It’s more obvious without clothes.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “When you’re dressed, I can’t tell.”
“That’s because I wear oversized clothes.”
“I know.” He steps back. “I bought a book.”
The subject change throws me. “Okay?”
“I thought I could read to you. It might help with writer’s block. If you want.”
I almost say no. Reading has always been solitary for me, and the thought of sharing that space with him feels too intimate.
But I’m also tired of being alone with my thoughts and feeling like a failure.
“Let me get dressed. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
He nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I dry off, moisturize my entire body, and pull on my softest pajamas. When I step into my bedroom, he’s sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, phone in hand.
I hesitate in the doorway.
“I can read from the chair if you’d prefer,” he says, watching me.
“No, it’s fine.”
I cross to the bed and climb in beside him, arranging the pillows until I’m comfortable.
He holds up his phone for me to see the cover. Blackout by Evan C. Ryder. There’s a silhouette of a man against a city skyline, the title in bold red letters.
“I’ve never read a crime thriller,” I say.
“Give it a chance.” He touches the screen and the page flips. “Something different might shake things loose.”
Before I can argue, he starts reading.
