The Romance Revival(29)
Our bathroom is nice enough, but beyond paint and some new plumbing fixtures, it’s pretty much exactly how it was when we bought the bungalow a couple of years ago. Luca always hated the bathroom. He hated the tiny counter, the dinky bathtub and shower in the corner. Since we moved in, he’s landscaped the front and back yards, remodeled the kitchen and bedroom, painted every wall, and crafted the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room. The bathroom was next on his list.
Luca reads my uncertainty. “Emery, if we’re married, you’ve seen it all before. And you’ve seen it recently—I was naked when I woke up in the machine. You put these clothes on me.”
I laugh. “I know. But I also know this is all new to you and don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“This is just one of many things that are going to be weird and new, so let’s just do away with the awkwardness.” He gazes down at me with those clear blue eyes and my God, Luca is still Luca, even without any of his memories. He’s always been pragmatic, sunny, and calm.
And I’ve benefited from it.
Time for me to treasure it.
“Good point.” I lift my chin toward the tub. “I think a bath would be safest.” He scrunches his nose at the tiny tub, and I laugh. “Okay, yes, I expected that reaction. Shower it is.”
I stand and turn on the water to get it warming. Putting on my mental big-girl pants, I help Luca stand to undress him. He lifts his arms, and I guide the shirt up his torso and off, tossing it into the laundry hamper in the corner.
Under any other circumstances, I would be giddily running my hands up his flat stomach, over his toned chest, and pulling him down to me. Our sex life was the one area of our relationship where I never felt like the weak link; no matter how tired I was, how late I came home, Luca and I always found a way toward each other in bed, in the shower, in the living room.
A terrible thought occurs to me: What if the last time we had sex was actually the last?
The darker thought resurfaces: What if he doesn’t fall in love with me again?
And an even worse thread winds its way into my brain: Why did he ever love me to begin with?
Stop it, I hiss internally. You need to work to earn his love back. You need to believe that you can. But I have to focus on getting him safely into the shower; none of these are paths I can explore right now. Straight to the to-solve-later file they go.
I turn my attention to the tie at his waistband, tugging it loose and coaxing the soft pajama pants down his hips.
Intentionally averting my eyes from the part of him I most definitely would not, under normal circumstances, ignore, I shift my attention to his injuries. The wound on his thigh is so much better than it was a couple of nights ago—the BioVIVE really is amazing—but the skin is still shiny and red, the muscle beneath slightly puckered. Bruises usually look worse before they look better, but Compound Y lowered his body temperature enough to minimize swelling, while the BioVIVE used lasers to target hemoglobin, the protein in red blood cells that gives bruises their color. It means he’s healing much faster than he would have on his own, but it all still looks incredibly painful.
Carefully, I help him step out of his pants and those, too, go into the hamper.
Luca has never been self-conscious—not that he has anything to be self-conscious about—and it’s reassuring to see another aspect of him that wasn’t changed by the BioVIVE. He doesn’t move to cover himself or even reach for a towel. Instead, his arms hang loose at his sides, eyes trained on where I’m kneeling in front of him.
And all I can think now is the hundreds of times I’ve been in this position, with him staring down at me.
The first time I saw Luca naked—only hours after we met—I seriously questioned whether I was hallucinating. This gorgeous man was interested in me? Luca spends his days digging and reaching and dragging and lifting. He runs and surfs. He’s long and lean, with biceps I can’t keep my hands off of, abdominals that make my mouth water, and thighs that send my mind straight to the gutter. I was immediately obsessed with his body, so imagine my surprise when we got to know each other, and I realized that muscles and a pretty face are the least interesting things about him. He’s funny, grounded, passionate, loyal, intuitive. He didn’t seem real then, and he still doesn’t now.
Forcing myself to focus, I reach under the sink for the almost-empty box of AquaGuards we keep stocked there and stand to wash my hands. “You’re always cutting yourself at work,” I explain, pulling one out. “These are the only things that keep the dirt and water out of your cuts and scrapes.”
Luca might not feel self-conscious, but I sense his gaze as surely as fingers on my skin. Having a task to concentrate on helps. That I must do said task while on my knees in front of him does not.
“That right?” His voice is a quiet rumble.
Nodding, I say, “You’re a landscaper, do you remember?”
He laughs. “You’re a scientist and I’m a landscaper? Way to punch above weight, Luca.”
Kneeling again, I open the sterile bandage, place it over his wound, and carefully press it to his skin. “Actually, I’m a physician, too, but I’ve only ever done research.”
He groans playfully. “Oh, okay, so an underachiever then.”
“Last year,” I say, “one of your clients left a screwdriver in the grass and it shot out the back of one of the lawnmowers. Twelve stitches.” I tap a finger against a thin silvery scar on his shin.