The Rom-Commers(83)

I guess he could have turned me around to work on the hooks. But he didn’t. He just encircled me with his arms, and I shivered nakedly there while he tugged and yanked at the hooks, the stubble of his jaw brushing against my cheek as he made almost imperceptible breaths of frustration into my ear. What did he smell like? Some kind of classic barbershop shaving cream, maybe? Sweet, and a little salty, too. Whatever it was, I wished I could steal some to take back to Texas.

“I hate this contraption,” Charlie said, in apology for taking so long.

I really was freezing. “Push and then pull,” I said, through trembling lips.

Once every wet thing was off, I handed Charlie the sweatpants while retaining the sweatshirt—carefully positioned in front of my torso like a polyblend shield. He bent down and arranged the sweatpants so I could step into them and then worked them up my legs to my waist.

“Better?” he asked.

“Getting there,” I said.

Then, eyes still closed, he held the sweatshirt open like an O so I could slide into that, too.

As soon as I was in, Charlie opened his eyes.

“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t say you could open your eyes.”

“You need socks,” Charlie said, all business. He grabbed a thick pair from his drawer and squatted down by my feet to put them on. I braced myself against his shoulder for balance.

As he finished with the socks, he looked down at the wet, empty dress as if that, of all things, was stumping him.

“Just throw it away,” I said.

“It’s a hell of a dress,” Charlie said, in protest.

“It’s ruined now,” I said. In more ways than one.

Charlie didn’t fight me. He tossed it toward his trash can, but missed.

“I can’t believe you just made me do that,” Charlie said then.

“What?” I asked. “Throw away my dress?”

“Change your clothes with my bare hands.”

“Stop complaining,” I said. “You’re fine.”

But Charlie wasn’t about to stop complaining. “Classic Emma,” he said. “Everything that you say is not romantic is romantic. You said it’s not romantic for people to fall on each other, but then you fell on me and it was. You said line dancing isn’t romantic, but then we went there and you ogled that Italian guy and I thought I was going to lose my mind. And here you are telling me to strip you down naked with my eyes closed, like if I can’t see you it’ll be PG-13, but instead I’m having to put my hands all over you—and it’s not better, it’s so much worse.”

By the time he was finished, he’d stood back up and was face-to-face with me.

His eyes were dark, and he looked kind of mad.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“No,” Charlie said, still looking mad.

“I thought you didn’t feel feelings like that,” I said. “I thought your heart was a suicidal bird.”

“I feel feelings, okay?”

“Yeah, but not those feelings. Remember? I had to explain to you what love feels like. And you don’t even like me like that, as you’ve explained in very clear terms. And you’re getting back together with your mean ex-wife. Nothing about any of this should be a problem for you. There should be nothing going on here but mechanics and knitwear.”

Charlie was frowning hard now, like he had fifty different things he wanted to say but couldn’t decide between them.

I waited. Frowning back.

Finally he said, “I’m not getting back with Margaux, okay? That’s not happening. That was never going to happen.”

“You said it was.”

“I said it might.”

“Are we parsing verbs now?”

“The point is—” Charlie started, but then he stopped himself.

I gave it a second, then I said, “What? What is the point?”

His voice quieted. “The point is, we should find you a blanket. And dry your hair.”

“I’m not cold anymore,” I said.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Charlie dropped his gaze to my mouth. “Your lips are blue.”

I dropped my gaze to his. “So? Yours are, too.”

“I’m not the person who was just shivering too much to put on my own clothes.”

“Well, I’m not the person who’s super mad about nothing.”

At that, we stared each other down. What were we even fighting about?

I looked at his bluish lips again, and he looked at mine.

And then there was only one thing to do.

I grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt right at the neck, and pulled him closer into a kiss.

For the record, he kissed me back.

With enthusiasm.

The second our mouths met, he was clutching me to him, and I was clutching back and we were devouring each other like hungry animals. Maybe it was all just physical. Maybe this kind of thing was bound to happen if you made any man peel off your wet dress and slide you limb by limb into a set of his own fleece-lined sweats.

But I didn’t care.

He didn’t like me like that—but I didn’t care.

I was leaving in two days—but I didn’t care.

His heart could only attack its own reflection—but I didn’t care.