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“There,” he says, “all done.”
I reach for the shower gel, intending to return the favor, but he shakes his head.
“You dry off and get into bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I step out of the shower and pull a fluffy white towel around body. I use another to dry my hair the best I can. It’s going to get the pillow wet, but I guess if Rory minded, he’d not have told me to get into the bed.
Once I’ve dried off thoroughly, I drop the towel into the linen basket behind the bathroom door. Leaving Rory to finish his shower in peace, I get into the bed.
It occurs to me I don’t know which side he favors. I’ve always had a preference for the left, so I get in and hope he’s not going to want me to swap.
As I hear the shower switching off, I yawn widely. It’s been a hell of a day. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced so many emotional shifts in such a short space of time.
“I wasn’t sure which side of the bed you sleep on,” I say as Rory comes into the room, still gloriously naked.
“Either’s good for me.”
He pulls back the sheets and gets into bed. He shuffles closer to me.
“Lie on your side, sweetheart.”
I roll onto my side, my back to him, assuming that’s what he meant. He wraps an arm around me and drags me a little closer. Who’d have thought Rory Donovan would be a snuggler? More to the point, who’d have thought I would feel so safe in his arms?
Shutting my eyes, I breathe in and out, noting how my chest rises and falls as I slowly drift off to sleep.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Eleanor
I wakewith a start as Rory leaps out of bed, cursing violently. Sitting up, I clutch the sheet to my chest and look around to see what’s going on.
“Shit!” he swears. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“That’s okay.”
I watch him closely. It takes me a moment to realize what’s wrong. He’s rubbing his thigh and his face is twisted in pain. It looks as if he has cramp.
“Here.” I pat the space beside me. “Let me help.”
He climbs onto the bed, on top of the sheets, and lies back. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I start to massage his thigh with firm strokes. It’s strange after all we did yesterday, but this feels embarrassingly intimate.
“How’s that?” I ask. “Too hard?”
“No,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s good.”
I carry on kneading the muscular flesh. Though I noticed the scar last night, I didn’t study it closely. It’s a mess. The flesh is puckered and yellow. Whoever tended the wound didn’t do a very good job of repairing it. I can’t work out what would cause a scar of this shape and size, but I guess whatever it was is the reason for his occasional limp.
“What happened to you?”
“Some asshole shot me.”
Stunned by that revelation, I freeze, my hands resting on his leg. I expected him to say he’d been in a car crash. That’s the assumption I made when Libby told me he had an injury which caused him pain from time to time. It’s a shock to hear him say he was shot.
“Was it, uh….” How do I put this delicately? “Was it a business rival?”
“No, just some petty thug trying to rob me.”
That’s even more surprising because muggers don’t usually run around with guns, not in this country.
