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I’d been sitting on his bed for about an hour, waiting for him to be finished so I could assist him. The shower had shut off thirty minutes ago. We’d already eaten dinner, so there was nothing else for me to do but wait for him to finish up. I debated on washing his sheets. Who knew how long it’d been since they’d been cleaned?
A loud crash had me up from the bed. “Austin? You okay?” I knocked on the door.
“Fuck!”
Immediately, I turned the knob and stepped in to see a perfect view of his ass, his towel on the floor.
“Sorry.” I shut the door again, leaving a gap open. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I fucking dropped the container that held the Q-tips. It’s glass.”
Well, crap. “Do you have a broom and dustpan anywhere?”
“It’s in the closet in the front foyer,” he said, all mopey.
“Okay. Don’t move.”
I ran to the foyer, grabbing what I needed, then headed back. “Cover up, will you?” I said, not pushing the door open just yet. “Are you decent?”
“Nope.” There was a touch of humor in his voice.
“Austin!”
“Well, you said don’t move, so I’m not moving.”
I growled under my breath, wanting to shove this broom up his nostril. “You need me right now, so you’d better play by my rules,” I warned.
He chuckled. “Okay, okay. I’m decent.”
I pushed open the door, and my mouth slipped ajar. He was covered but only around his waist. His chest was bare and slick with water. He had a body built like a Calvin Klein model. I’d seen him shirtless before, obviously after helping him out of his clothes at the hospital. But under the bathroom lights and him dripping wet as though he were on some sort of spring break show, I couldn’t stop staring at him and openly—embarrassingly—admiring his body.
“Are you just going to stand there and gawk? Your mouth’s open, by the way.” The smile was heavy on his face. “Do I have to call my lawyer now and file a restraining order against you too, Sydney?”
I lifted the broom stick higher above my head, pretending to threaten him with it. “Shut up.”
I ignored him and swept up the glass from the floor. Then, I turned to face him. “Sit. I’m washing your hair.”
We’d agreed before he hopped in the shower that he couldn’t lift his arm; therefore, I would give him a proper shampoo, conditioner, and rinse.
I pointed a shaky finger in his direction. “Don’t say a word.”
I shot him a look, and he pursed his lips and sat down on the chair I’d put out for him by the sink.
When he rested his head against the sink, his green eyes locked with mine—electric, sparkling, mesmerizing. It was no wonder this man sold magazines. He was stunning.
I swallowed and turned on the sink, slipping my hand under the faucet to test the temperature.
“You should have been a nurse,” he said with a sincerity I hadn’t thought he had. “You have that caring touch that very few people have.”
I glanced at him, my face heating. We were too close. This felt too intimate, too raw. And against my will, against all understanding, I was aroused.
I didn’t respond and focused on the task at hand, running my hands through his hair, getting the shampoo to the back of his scalp. His eyes fell shut, and his breathing caught.
“You’re good at this.”
“Being a shampoo girl?” I joked even though my pulse was kicking into overdrive.
His voice was quiet, almost sleepy, like my shampoo skills were taking him into the land of deep slumber. “No, taking care of people,” he said. “You did a good job with Addison and Alec.”
