Page 51 of Saving Grace

“Okay if I shower?” he asks.

“Sure.”Ugh, know any other words, Grace?I’m so hot and bothered, and he still has his shorts on. He’s not touching me. He simply stands beside me in the water and squeezes shampoo into his palm. The rejection burns. My neck and face are on fire. I push out of the shower, plucking a towel on the way past the rack. “Excuse me,” I choke.

I leave my jeans where they lay on his floor, opting for a quick exit over retrieving them. I fly from his bedroom and into mine in a few strides.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I scrub my hands over my face, refusing to let the tears lighting up the bridge of my nose with a hot prickle fall. I wrap the towel around my shoulders and sink onto the end of the bed. I scream, low and quiet, into the towel bunched in my hands. God, what is wrong with me? I want him, I don’t want him. I don’t want to be wanted. I can’t take not being wanted.

Lord above.

Water drips onto my feet. I drag the towel down from my face.

Large feet are planted on either side of mine. Water continues to drip to the floor, running down his legs. I don’t want to see his face right now.Please don’t make me look up.

Knees bend.

Dark blue eyes appear below me as he crouches down, and warm hands rest on my knees. “Need to talk about it?”

I scoff quietly and glance out the window, not wanting to see his handsome damn face.That’s rubbing salt in the wound, Mackinlay.

“Gorgeous, what happened?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like it.”

I see his brow raise in my peripheral.

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Grace.”

“Okay, gorgeous Grace,” he says as the corner of his mouth lifts.

I sigh and snap my gaze to his. “Really, Mack, you don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s debatable, but okay . . .”

“Stop treating me like I’m something you want.”

He pushes up and stands tall. “Right.” He walks out the door. A moment later, he returns.

“Give me the towel,” he barks.

I jerk and stiffen on the bed. He tugs at the towel, and I let it go.

“You want to know how much Idon’twant you, Grace?”

I lower my brows. He’s dried off, his shorts tented. His jaw clenched. His chest heaving.

“Answer the question,” he prompts.

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