Page 162 of Unwritten Rules

Shampoo was scrubbed into my scalp and rinsed.

Then conditioned and combed.

Soap was scrubbed into my back.

“How’s my Blondie doing?” He kissed my shoulder again.

“More clean,” I managed a small smile through my fog.

His hands were gentle as he continued to clean me up. If I let him, he might have even brushed my teeth for me.

“Question for a question?” he asked, scrubbing one of my arms with a loofah.

I scoffed at him. How was he trying to play these games right now? “What kind of questions?”

“Easy ones. What’s your favorite color? If you tell me it’s pink, I’ll be excited that my guess was correct.” He handed me a toothbrush.

“I like pink, but my favorite is the deep purple of a sunset. What’syourfavorite color big, bad Brent Vaughn? Black?”

He swapped arms to scrub and placed a kiss on my hand. “The golden light that comes off your hair in the sun. The bright blue of your eyes when you tell me you hate me. The soft pink of your lips before you kiss me. And my number one? The reddish tint of your cheeks when you’re so close to me you can’t help but blush.”

My mouth fell open and toothpaste dripped out. “That’s not something I’d expect you to say.”

“What did you expect?”

“The black of your motorcycle.”

He splashed me and I flicked water back at him. For someone so serious and so bad boy-ish, he had some soft spots hiding under there.

“You used your question. It’s my turn.” I looked around the bathroom where he brought in the pajamas he knew I’d want to wear. My favorite candle he knew I’d want to use. He added bubbles and salt to my bath to relax me.

“Why do you hate waffles so much?”

He would turn down waffles every time they were available, saying he hated them with a passion. I never knew someone to have something against food like that—unless it was Brussels sprouts.

He took my leg in his hand, scrubbing starting at my foot. “When I was a kid, I refused to let my babysitters cook for me. It got so bad that I wasn’t eating what anyone else would make, so I started trying to cook in the middle of the night because I was so hungry. I attempted to make myself waffles and burned them every time. I continued to make them because it was the only thing I knew to do and ate burned waffles at one in the morning for months.

“Then my grandfather hired Miss Martha, and shereallygave me the what for. But instead of forcing me to eat what she made, she taught me how to make pancakes. Little by little, I started trusting her enough to make me small items, so long as she promised me she would never make me waffles ever again. The burned taste is etched in my brain, and I will never eat another waffle again. I’d probably puke like you.” He teased me with a smile on the last part, rinsing off the loofah in the water.

“I’d be traumatized by waffles too. I also didn’t realize Martha was a long-time person in your life.”

His eyes fell to the water after finishing with my legs. I’d never seen his face get that look on it. He had a mix of sadness and introspection on his face—which he never showed either. “She took care of me like a mother. My grandfather told me about my mom’s suicide before I stopped eating, and she could see what it did to me. So, like any good mother would, Miss Martha took me as hers and raised me until I became a hellion that wouldn’t listen to her—like any son would do.”

Miss Martha was his mother. And he brought me around her for our first ‘date’ to the diner? It made sense to me why she was so shocked to see him with a girl. That was her son, and he brought along a girl to basically meet his mother on a first date. Did she even know that I basically just met him that night?

He changed subjects. “The water is getting cold. Do you want me to help you out and into your pajamas?”

I wanted to tell him no and to leave the bathroom out of my own depression so I could be alone, but it was futile since he’d sneak in and fall asleep with me later.

I nodded.

Pulling the drain on the tub, he lifted me out of the water and into a towel. I wrapped my hair after he sat me back down on the edge and waited for him to retrieve my warm clothes.

The oversized sweater was the first to come. He slipped it over my toweled head and pulled each of my arms through after making sure they were dry. He got onto his knees to help me into the oversized shorts.

I didn’t give him my feet. My heart was in my throat. He undressed, bathed, and dressed me again. “Give me your feet so I can make sure you’re warm enough for bed.”

He looked up at me, wondering what I was doing.

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