Page 45 of Cross-Checked

But do I let that stop me from walking into that bathroom? Sitting on the edge of the tub and noticing how she’s arranged all the bubbles in the middle to ensure she’s covered under the water? No, I sure don’t.

Do I let it stop me from dipping the bath sponge into the water, then adding some body wash to it? Nope.

And when she leans forward so I can wash her back for her, do I stop myself from slipping my hand along her neck and brushing her hair to one side before I move that bath sponge along her shoulders, careful not to put too much pressure on any of the bruised parts? Not a chance.

Because even though I know she’s right, that nothingshouldhappen between us, I don’t think there’s anything I could do to stop this. There’s no way I’m not taking care of her while she’s hurt. And when she’s recovered...well, we’ll see.

“I think you’re going to need to dunk under the water to get your hair wet enough for me to wash it,” I tell her.

“Alright.” The word is spoken so softly. “Will you just hold my arm up here.” She nods her chin toward the opposite rim of the tub where her splinted arm rests. “I don’t want the splint to get wet.”

“Sure.” I lean over, cupping my hand where her elbow sits against the porcelain tub, and she sinks into the water. Trying to remain a gentleman, I keep my eyes focused on the frosted window that takes up the wall space above the tub.

She resurfaces a moment later, using her good hand to wipe the water from her eyes. When I lather up my hands with shampoo and sink my fingers into her hair, I try to focus on how I’m helping her rather than on how intimate this is. As I massageher scalp, she tilts her head back into my hands, letting out a breathy and contented sigh.

The way she’s both tentative about accepting help, but then laps it up when it’s given...it has me wondering so many things about her previous relationships.

After working the shampoo down to the ends of her hair, I gently tilt her head back so her hair’s in the water and, holding the weight of her head in one hand, I use my other to work the suds out of her hair, before sitting her back up.

“You’re remarkably good at this,” she says, still not looking at me. “Do this often?”

I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before. Never shared this type of intimacy with someone. Shower sex? Sure. But nothing like this.

“Only for Abby,” I tell her. “Though . . . her bathtime is . . .” I clear my throat. “. . . not this.”

Her shoulders shake with a silent laugh, and I reach across the tub to the ledge under the window and add a few pumps of conditioner to my hand.

“Why do you have shampoo and conditioner over here? Besides Abby’s, I mean.” She nods her chin to where the baby shampoo sits next to my bottles.

“Uhh.” Is this a trick question? “For when I take baths?”

“You take baths? And use conditioner?”

“Why do you sound shocked? I’m sure you can imagine how sore and stiff my muscles get after practices and games. Sometimes, a hot soak is as necessary as an ice bath. And yeah, of course I use conditioner.” My hair isn’t long, but it’s long enough that it gets tangled if I don’t condition it.

The “hmmmm” that rattles around in her throat gives me no indication of what she’s thinking, so I work the conditioner through her hair in silence, before tilting her head back again to work the lather out of her hair with the water.

“Do you want me to use the sprayer to get this out of your hair? Or...” I’m about to ask if she’d rather do it herself, when I realize how difficult that would be for her.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll just sit up with my back to you so my hair’s all the way out of the water?”

“Sounds good.” Why does it sound like I have a frog in my throat?

I busy myself with turning on the water to the handheld sprayer, and making sure it’s a good temperature while she turns to sit facing the window. “I need to pull the plug and let the water drain a bit or we’ll overflow it with this new water.”

“Kay.” The answer is clipped, and she sounds . . . nervous?

I have her tilt her head back and use the sprayer to work any remaining conditioner out of her hair until it’s squeaky clean, and then I hold her hair up and rinse off her upper body. “How do you want to...rinse the rest of yourself off?”

There’s no way I can rinse her off without her standing up and being fully naked in front of me.

She clears her throat, but her voice is still thick when she says, “I think I can do it one-handed. And then get myself dried off.”

“Alright.” I lean down to put the sprayer in front of her where she can grab it with her left hand. “There are towels right on the shelf there.” I point toward the wall above the faucet. “Just call me if you need anything.”

And then I head out, shutting the door behind me, feeling like I’m barely breathing as I remind myself that there’s nothing physical going on here. I’m only helping her because she’s hurt. It’s nothing more than that, and she doesn’t want there to be.

Chapter Nineteen

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