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I stop in the process of rubbing a towel through my wet hair, leaving it standing on end. She arrived, and the world righted itself. With the need to protect her, I let go of my fear about my own life. And the sex is awesome.
It’s as if by burying myself in her body fixed my mind.
Yeah, I’m nuts. She’s right. Fucked up.
I throw the towel to the tiled floor and brace my hands on the granite sink, glaring at my foggy reflection in the full-length mirror. My scars don’t scare me anymore. Losing her scares me more. What that means… No idea, but it’s good enough for now. Good enough for me.
I reach for my shaving foam and cheap razor, bought at the Walmart where I bought everything I’d need to hole up in here.
A few million dollars. A triad.
Jesus.
I could pay off her debt. If I go back, I can do it.
That means going back to danger.
Unless it’s all in my mind.
Damn, what if she’s right? What if they’re all right? Coincidence. Probability. Maybe my mind is trying to find a pattern to explain it all, and there never was one to begin with.
What does it mean? Why am I even still alive? What for?
The door creaks as it opens, Raylin at the opening, dressed in her shorts and blouse, her face so sweet it leaves me speechless. Warmth spills inside my chest, and a smile tugs at my lips.
“Can I help you?” She gestures at the razor in my hand. “Help you shave.”
My hand trembles slightly as I pass her the razor and the shaving foam. “Be my guest.” I lean back against the granite counter and nod.
Three years I spent away from my uncle, from the company. Three years looking for myself and I couldn’t figure out what I needed. Now I come back, and here she is.
The one who takes away my fear of the future.
Chapter Eight
RAYLIN
My thoughts are a tangle. I followed Storm upstairs to the shower, trying to sort them, to decide what I believe, and now I’m standing, razor and a can of shaving foam in my hands, my mind unraveling.
Again. Like every single time I look at him.
Face heating.
Again.
He’s only wearing a towel around his trim hips, tiny droplets glittering on his skin. His hair is wet and standing on end, and his lips are curling into a familiar, wicked grin. How’s a girl supposed to react to this sense overload, huh? I think I’m perfectly justified in drooling just a little.
He leans his head back, watching me under lowered lashes. Baring his throat to the razor in my hand. For a guy who’s been shot at and who’s been through an explosion and a car crash—accidents or not—this show of trust is touching.
He keeps doing that. Hammering at walls that he’s already torn down. Plus, he’s a total hottie. Completely irrelevant, that.
Yeah…
Swallowing down nerves, I put the razor on the counter and pour some foam in my hand. I divide it between my hands and reach up, spread it on his cheeks.
God, this is fun. And so hot. Feeling his stubble under my palms, under my fingers, feeling the contours of his face, the strong bones of his jaw and cheekbones, my hand brushing over his soft mouth, the contrast making me shiver.
His broad chest expands and contracts, his breathing shallow. The knot in his throat moves when he swallows.
