Page 20 of Things We Hide from the Light
My bathtub was better, a claw-foot to his more modern tile surround. There was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor next to a perfectly good hamper. If the man hadn’t been obviously battling some kind of demons, his hotness would have dropped several points for that infraction.
“Mind closing the door?” I asked.
He still looked a little dazed. There was something about the wounded Nash Morgan that tugged at me. And the temptation to tug back was nearly overwhelming.
“Nash?” I reached out and gave his arm a squeeze.
He jolted, then gave a little head shake. “Yeah. Sorry. What?”
“Mind closing the door so our smelly little pal can’t get out?”
“Sure.” He closed the door softly, then rubbed that spot between his brows again. “Sorry about the mess.”
He looked so lost I had to fight the urge to tackle him and kiss it better. Instead, I hefted the dog into his line of sight. “The only mess I’m concerned with is this one.”
I put her down and unwound the T-shirt. She immediately put her nose to the tile and started sniffing. A brave girl scoping out her new environment.
Nash sprang into action like a wooden puppet becoming a real boy. He bent and turned on the water in the tub. The town was not wrong about that very fine ass, I decided as I stripped his sweatshirt off over my head.
I held up the filthy dog T-shirt. “You might have to burn this.”
“Might have to burn this bathroom.” He nodded at the dog, who was leaving tiny muddy footprints everywhere.
I dragged my stained crop top off and added it to the pile of questionable laundry.
Nash took one long look at my sports bra and then nearly gave himself whiplash spinning around to test the water temperature with his hand and unnecessarily adjusting the shower curtain.
Sweet and gentlemanly.
Definitely not my type. But I had to admit, I liked seeing him riled.
Still avoiding looking directly at me, Nash grabbed a pile of towels from the linen closet and dropped two folded ones on the floor next to the tub before draping a third over the sink.
“Better lose the shirt, hotshot,” I advised.
He glanced down at his uniform button-down that was covered in streaks of mud and grass stains. On a grimace, he worked the buttons open and stripped it off, dropping it into the hamper. Then he scooped the pile of dirty laundry from the floor and added it to the hamper.
He had on a white undershirt that hugged his chest. A strip of the colorful adhesive tape athletes used on injuries was visible under the left sleeve.
“Why don’t you grab a big cup or something from the kitchen? I don’t want to use the sprayer on her if it’s gonna scare the hell out of her,” he suggested.
“Sure.” I left him and the dog and began my quest for a dog-washing vessel.
A quick search of his cabinets proved that most every dish the man owned was either in the sink or the overflowing dishwasher that, judging by the smell, hadn’t been run recently. I dumped detergent into the dishwasher, started the cycle, then hand-washed a large, plastic Dino’s Pizza cup.
I only felt the smallest splinter of guilt when I wandered past his table to peruse the files.
It was on the way back to the bathroom, so it wasn’t like I’d made a special trip. Besides, I had a job to do. And it wasn’tmyfault he’d left them out in the open, I reasoned.
It took me less than thirty seconds to zero in on three folders.
HUGO, DUNCAN.
WITT, TINA.
217.
217 was a police code for assault with attempt to murder. It didn’t take a genius to guess that it was probably the policereport on Nash’s shooting. I was definitely curious. But I only had time for a quick peek, which meant prioritizing. Sending a glance in the direction of the bedroom, I lifted the top of the Hugo file with one finger. The folder felt gritty and I realized that, like the nightstand in his bedroom, it was covered in a fine layer of dust.
