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I finished in the shower sooner than I had intended and was drying off when there was a knock on the bathroom door. The door didn’t lock, and I quickly wrapped my towel around my body before it slowly opened up. Dean stood there, looking sexy and disheveled.
That wasn’t fair, but then was life ever really fair? The man was fifty-three. He had slept on the floor, possibly all night. Why did he not have pillow creases on his cheek or swollen eyes? Why didn’t his hair look like a bird had taken up residence in it?
“Good morning,” he said in a raspy, deep voice from sleep.
“Good morning,” I replied, holding the towel tightly around me.
My hair was wet and dripping down my back, but I wasn’t about to take the towel to dry it with Dean standing there, looking at me.
“You must feel better,” he said, then yawned while running a hand through his perfectly messy hair.
I nodded. “I do. But you slept on the floor. Are you okay?”
He smirked. “Yeah. My back might beat me up about it some today, but I’ll survive.”
“Why didn’t you sleep on the sofa again?” I asked.
He shrugged. “You were too quiet. No coughing. Nothing. It worried me. I moved closer in case you needed something.”
I had no words for that. I stared at him, trying to figure out why he had been so worried about me. He could have paid someone to come and stay with me. He had people at his beck and call.
“Why did you stay?” I asked him.
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “What? No,Thank you, Dean?”
I sighed. “Of course I am grateful to you. I just don’t understand why you did it.”
He was quiet a moment, then finally shook his head. “You were sick. I was worried. You needed someone. I stayed. That’s it.”
“But you’re Dean Finlay,” I said pointedly. “I can’t imagine taking care of sick people is something you do often.”
“I raised my son. His mother wasn’t much of a mother. When he was sick, she always sent him to me. I know what to do.”
I had read articles about him and his son when I was younger. It was always something the media loved to cover.
Dean Finlay, badass drummer for Slacker Demon, is an exceptional father when he’s not onstage.It was one of many things they’d said about him.
It was something I’d always wondered about, then felt guilty for doubting it.
Him taking care of his son was one thing. I was just … a tenant? A girl he knew? I didn’t know what I was to the man. We were something that would never have a label.
“I’m also really good with pancakes. They’re my specialty. You ready to eat something other than soup?”
He was going to make me pancakes. Maybe I was still sleeping. I hoped not. I really, really hoped not.
“That sounds wonderful,” I replied.
He grinned, obviously pleased. “I’ll leave you to get dressed.” Then, he did one quick scan of my towel-clad body, winked at me, and closed the door.
I took a deep breath, then walked over to the mirror to see how ridiculous I looked. My wet hair was lying flat, which was better than what it had looked like when I woke up. My face was flushed and no longer looked pale. It wasn’t as bad as I had imagined.
Reaching under the cabinet, I pulled out a second towel and began to dry my hair.
He had been here a few days now, and I knew he’d seen the pictures around the house—possibly even Cam’s room—yet he never asked about anything. I wondered if he hadn’t snooped at all. That was impressive, if it was a fact. I wasn’t sure I could have done the same in his position. There was plenty I didn’t want him to see, but I’d been so sick that none of that mattered. I knew, now, it might matter a lot.
I brushed out my hair and continued to dry it. I would worry about this later. I had to get my hair dry and get dressed. After all, Dean Finlay was in my kitchen, making me breakfast. I didn’t need to keep him waiting.
fifteen
