Page 86 of Quiver

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Kylie said seriously. “I don’t have to wash your hair, I don’t have to stay, you don’t have to let me. Neither of us has to keep doing the lessons. Hell, you didn’t have to do them in the first place. For that matter, I didn’t have to lie to Sophia LeBlanc. We can both pretend we got backed into corners or twisted around by fate. We made choices, Fletch, and I’m making this one because I want to.”

She stared at her, unsure where the burst of honesty had come from, but unable to disagree with any of it.

“Do you want your hair washed?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, let’s figure out how to get you up here.”

She stood and shed her flannel, leaving her thin, cotton tank top in place. “I, um, I can’t get into my sports bras. They’re too tight to pull on over my head with the wound.”

The corner of Kylie’s mouth curled up. “I’ve noticed. I’ll do my best not to turn this into a one-woman wet T-shirt contest.”

She nodded, glad one of them could still joke.

“I thought you might back your butt against the counter and sort of lean back. Then I could help you kick your feet up.”

She did as instructed and suffered a pain in her side no worse than getting in or out of bed in the morning.

Kylie stared down at her. “Okay?”

“Not bad.”

She reached over her, and the sound of water running into the metal sink carried the soothing quality of rain on a tin roof. Kylie’s body pressed close enough to warm Fletcher more than the cold countertop could overcome. She smelled of the barn, but also of herself, something every bit as elemental as dirt or rain.

Fletcher turned her head to see Kylie test the water on her own hand before scooping some onto her hair. “How’s the temp?”

“Perfect.”

She grinned down at her. “You always did like it hot.”

A memory rushed back to assault her senses with images of the two of them showering together in the little room at the back of the barn. Kylie always dived right into the spray before it was warm while Fletcher hung back, partly because she craved heat and partly to admire the sight of her all firm and slick.

“I always suspected it was because I ran hot where you were cooler in nature. We were both seeking what we didn’t have,” Kylie continued. “Isn’t it funny how we ascribe physical cues to personality traits?”

“I’ve never thought about it, but you always did seem hotter than me.”

“More hot-tempered maybe,” Kylie said. “But you were both hotter in the sex appeal sense and warmer blooded. Sleeping with you was like having my own personal fireplace to warm my toes on.”

She smiled softly as the warm water ran over her head, washing away the dirt and grime and maybe a few more of her defenses. It wasn’t hard to remember those nights with Kylie’s cold feet under the covers and her hot fingers in Fletcher’s hair, the same fingers massaging her scalp now. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the sensation as Kylie added shampoo and worked up a rich lather, taking the time to cover every curl. She cradled the back of Fletcher’s head and gently scrubbed down the nape of her neck, then back up behind her ears. The tenderness and attention to detail eased the remaining tension from her shoulders, and she allowed them to sag, trusting in Kylie’s ability and willingness to hold her up, at least in the moment.

“You know, when we first met, I might’ve been willing to murder you in order to get curls like these.” She ran her hands through them as she switched to rinsing. “I’ve always been impressed with how long they are when wet, but it’s because they spiral so thoroughly when they’re dry. If I didn’t know you, I’d swear you had the best perm artist in the world.”

She snorted softly. “Can you imagine me with a perm out in the barn and working in the rain? I’d look like a drugged poodle. Hell, sometimes I still do.”

Kylie gently pushed water back from Fletcher’s forehead to keep it from running in her eyes. “Still, the color’s so rich right now. It’s like I’m tangling my hands in midnight.”

“No.” She shook her head as much as she could without soaking either of them. “You have the best hair color in the world. You want to talk about murder. A million women would gladly kill to bottle what nature gave you.”

Kylie laughed. “I used to hate it. I felt like such a cliché, a fiery redhead.”

“But yours is so much more than red. It’s rich and layered, deep, like, I don’t know … there are hints of brown, and when you’re in the sun, there’s a current more gold than copper.”

“I haven’t had those streaks for years. My summers have been spent in dark theaters. It makes me more wine than fire.”

She leaned forward to grab the conditioner, and several strands of her hair brushed across Fletcher’s cheek. Without thinking, Fletcher caught them and twirled them around her index finger, holding them up for inspection. Kylie froze and stared down at her a long second before sighing.