Page 63 of These White Lies
Her face flushes. “It’s not the same thing.”
“True.” My voice is rough. “I’m just trying to help, scout’s honor.”
She makes a face. “You weren’t a scout.”
“I was too,” I protest, slapping my hand to my chest in exaggerated offense. “For a few months, anyway. I punched the son of the troop leader for being a little shit and got kicked out.”
She presses her lips together, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “How old were you?”
“Seven.”
Her laugh slips free, a happy sound that makes my chest expand.
Then she flinches, and the bubble pops.
“Are you in pain?”
She grimaces. “No. Apparently, I’ve used up all the hot water. Shoo, so I can get out.” She flaps a hand at me.
I lift an eyebrow, not budging. “What about your hair?” She frowns, shivering. “Get dressed.” I take a step back into the bedroom. “We’ll use the sink.”
By the time I return with a chair from downstairs, Elizabeth is dressed in loose pajama pants and a soft cotton top that does nothing to hide her beautiful breasts or the outline of her nipples. Her braless nipples. They harden in front of me, and she lifts one arm across her chest, glaring at me.
My mouth goes dry.
“The nurse helped me at the hospital, but I can’t get my bra on one-handed, and when I lift this arm too far,” she says, as she gestures toward her injured side, “it pulls.”
I swallow hard. “You won’t get any complaints from me. C’mon.” I walk past her and position the chair in front of the sink. “You might have to prop your feet on the edge of the bathtub. It’s a tight fit.”
I hear her snicker and look over my shoulder.
She turns bright red. “Sorry. Apparently under stress, my humor reverts to when I was twelve.” I stare at her blankly. “Are you serious?That’s what she said?” she says in a ‘duh’ voice.
“And to think I thought you were this high-class lawyer.” I smile, delighted with this glimpse of her personality. “Let’s go.” I gesture at the chair but Elizabeth hesitates, chewing her lip.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Sit. Down. Firefly.”
She does as I say, leaning her head back over the sink.
“If you’re going to do it, can I get the full treatment?” Her blue eyes twinkle up at me. “My conditioner is on the counter.”
I tsk at her. “There will be an extra charge.”
“I think I can afford it.”
Testing the lukewarm water, I fill the cup I brought upstairs with me, and hold it over her wary eyes.
“Hold still. I’d hate to accidentally spill it on you.”
“If you do, you aren’t getting a tip,” she shoots back.
I grin and waggle my eyebrows. “Brace yourself. We’ve only just started offering spa services. I haven’t had a lot of practice.”
Pouring the water carefully over the crown of her head, I tilt the cup so it runs down her dark hair without splashing her face.
Her lashes lower as I run my fingers through the silky strands, gently working through any tangles. I repeat the motion over and over, long after the water has run clear, the silence growing thick between us.
