“Can I watch?” Atticus negotiates, and I swear I choke on my own spit.
“Can youwhat?”
But he just laughs, pointing a finger toward the hall to the right. “The shower is in there; feel free to use one of the robes instead of putting on your dirty clothes again.”
I follow his direction, shutting the door behind myself and stripping off my clothes. They lie in a dirty pile as I start the water, letting it turn scalding before I step in.
As the water flows over me, soaking my hair and drenching my skin, I sigh.
My stomach is aching and the hot water is stinging my cheek, but it’s relaxing my muscles, and that’s all I care about. After my long day at work—rotating tires and changing oil—I really wanted to unwind at the gym and get a full night’s rest.
Instead, I’m forming dark bruises and hiding out in Atticus Chastain’s—what, guesthouse?
I don’t understand why Mom is so high-strung. I mean, I understand her grief; I feel it too, and I barely knew the guy. Dad, I mean. But I don’t understand why she makes it her personal mission to hurt me.
Well, I suppose it’s because I remind her of him, but that’s not fair. I didn’t choose my genetics.
I spend the next few minutes dwelling and throwing myself the world’s most pathetic pity party. If I could hide in here, concealing my shame for the rest of the night, I would.
But Atticus is just outside this door, waiting for me. I have a feeling that if I did lock myself away, he’d just bust down the door to find me.
And for some reason, this makes me smile.
I turn off the water after thoroughly scrubbing my hair and body, then find the stack of robes Atticus had mentioned before I got into the shower in the cupboard.
They’re soft and white and expensive, just as I thought they would be. With the band wrapped securely around my waist, I exit the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a neat pile.
I find Atticus lounging on the couch, his eyes trained on some action movie on the TV. As I enter, his gaze darts to me, and his eyes narrow.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.”
Without a word, he extends a hand toward me, as if he’s offering me a place to lie. But with his upper body taking up one side and his leg thrown up on the other, there isn’t much room.
I eye the recliner in the corner, but Atticus clears his throat, as if warning me against it. So instead, I walk in his direction, placing my hand in his.
One second I’m standing before him, uncertain and slightly aroused, and the next I’m being tugged down until I’ve fallen on top of him, my face pressed to his neck.
Atticus laughs as a loud shout leaves me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
“Scared, sweetheart?” he coos, large palms spread over the small of my back and pressing lightly until my hips are firmly pressed to his.
“N-no,” I mumble, embarrassed by the sound that escaped me.
It seems that around Atticus, I’malwaysembarrassed.
“Mhm,” he hums, but it doesn’t sound as if he believes me. “Just get comfortable. Fast & Furious is on.”
Fast & Furious? What are we, divorced dads? But I say nothing, only untucking my face to be able to see the TV screen as Atticus begins to rub soft, soothing circles on my back.
Slowly, I untense, my body relaxing over the length of his as explosions blare and engines roar from the speakers. Within minutes, I’m like putty in his hands, hardly focusing on the movie as I listen to the steady drum of his heartbeat.
“You like this movie?” Atticus murmurs into my hair. “I picked it because it has cars.”
Oh. Cars… because I work at an auto shop.
A small chuckle leaves me, and he must feel the vibrations through my chest because his arms tighten, and I can feel his responding smile as he presses his face against the crown of my head.
