Page 43 of Under One Roof

“Then what are you smiling at?”

“I was remembering something funny. Do you want me to help you get cleaned up?”

“I can do it,” she says, even as she tucks her head against my shoulder. I carry her downstairs and set her on her bed. She immediately falls to her side in the fetal position.

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

She stares at me for a long time, her tongue gliding over her cracked and dry lips. “You can’t shower with me.”

I bite back a chuckle. “That sounds like a question.”

She blinks sleepily, her fingers lifting toward me. “You can’t shower with me, but you can turn it on for me.”

I find the toothpaste so she can brush and then turn on the shower, making sure she has a fresh towel and clothes before closing the door to the small bathroom. As soon as it snicks shut, I curse myself for not making it bigger. For not bringing her up to my bedroom and putting her in my more spacious bathroom. We could both fit in the shower, and I would gladly stand under the water fully clothed if she needed me to hold her up.

Behind the door, I hear her moving around, groaning every once in a while. The shower shuts off after a few minutes, and I turn around to wait until she opens the door. When she does, she’s in the shorts and T-shirt I found.

“Feel better?” I ask, and she nods, accepting my hand when I extend it. I usher her to the bed, where I hold the covers up so she can get in, but she doesn’t. Instead, she goes to the small nightstand, where she picks up an elastic band.

“Here. Let me.” I take it from her then snag the brush I spotted in a basket on the dresser and point to the bed for her to sit. When she does, I get to work, combing the long strands of wet hair, the light golds and dark ambers blending together to create my new favorite color. After I have all the tangles out, I separate her hair into three lengths and braid them together, tying it off at the bottom. It’s been a few years since Grace wanted me to braid her hair, so my skills are a little rusty, but it’ll do.

Andi runs her hand over her hair. “You braided it.”

“I know.”

“You know how to braid hair.”

“I do,” I say, even though it wasn’t a question.

“Is there anything you don’t know how to do?”

I lift the covers up again, and after she crawls under them, I tuck them around her before sitting back down, stretching my legs out, my back against the headboard. “I don’t know how to crochet.”

She closes her eyes, snuggling into my side, and I drape my arm around her, skating my fingertips over her forehead and temple. She hums. “That feels nice. Please don’t stop.”

I’d never. Not even if a hurricane swept through here.

“I miss it,” she says quietly.

“Miss what?”

“Being touched.”

I stop for a stunned moment. “What do you mean?”

“Physical touch is my love language. I need cuddles and hugs and holding hands.”

I blow out a breath, my mind having run away with all the possibilities she could have meant. I will give Andi whatever she needs, anything she wants to feel comfortable. But the thought of her missing a sexual touch has my skin on fire. Even now, after a minute, my heart rate still hasn’t settled into its normal rhythm.

“Bet the ice queen would be so mad if she saw us now,” Andi mumbles, and I skim my index finger down her nose.

“The ice queen?”

“Elsa. Your Elsa,” she says, like that explains everything. It does not.

“She’s not my Elsa. You know that.”

Andi slants her head so she can look up at me, and I sweep my fingers across her jaw and down to her throat, where I find her pulse. I lay my fingers over it as she admits, “I was jealous of her talking to you at Ian’s party. She’s beautiful and had all your attention.”

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