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’t my fault 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 police report 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.
I’d barely glanced at the paper on top, an unflattering mug shot from a few years ago, when I heard, “You find something?”
Startled, I dropped the folder closed, my heart kicking into high gear, before realizing Nash was calling from the bathroom.
I took a step back from the table and blew out a breath. “Coming,” I yelled back weakly.
When I returned to the bathroom, my heart tripped over itself. Nash was now shirtless, his sopping wet undershirt on the floor next to the tub. And he was smiling. Like full-on hot-guy smile.
Between the half-frontal and the grin, I froze in place and appreciated the view.
“If you don’t stop flinging water everywhere, you’re gonna flood the barbershop,” Nash warned the dog as she raced from one end of the tub to the other. He splashed water from the faucet at her and she let out a series of hoarse yet delighted barks.
I let out a laugh. Both man and dog turned to look at me.
“Figured I’d get her in the tub to make sure she wasn’t gonna go all gremlin on us,” Nash said.
The man’s life might be gathering dust, but that heroism went bone-deep. The splinter of guilt grew into something bigger, sharper, and I counted my lucky stars that he hadn’t actually caught me snooping.
There was a fine line between necessary risk and stupidity.
I joined him on the floor, kneeling on one of the folded towels, and handed over the cup. “You two look like you’re having fun,” I said, trying to sound like a woman who hadn’t just invaded Nash’s privacy.
The soggy little gremlin set her front paws on the lip of the tub and looked up at us with adoration. Her ratty tail blurred with happiness, sending droplets of dirty water everywhere.
“See if you can hang on to her while I douse her,” Nash suggested, filling the cup with clean water.
“Come here, little hairy mermaid.”
We worked side by side, scrubbing, sudsing, rinsing, and laughing.
Every time Nash’s bare arm brushed mine, goose bumps exploded across my skin. Every time I felt the urge to move closer instead of putting some distance between us, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I was close enough to see every wince he made when he moved his shoulder in a way that didn’t agree with the damaged muscles. But he never once complained.
It took four water changes and half an hour before the dog was finally clean.
Her wiry fur was mostly white with a scattering of dark patches on her legs. She had one spotted ear and one brown and black one.
“What are you going to call her?” I asked as Nash plucked the dog from the tub. She licked his face with exuberance.
“Me?” He maneuvered his head away from the pink tongue. “Stop licking me.”
“Can’t blame her. You’ve got a lickable face.”
He gave me one of those smoldering looks before gently setting her down. She shook, sending water in a six-foot radius.
I grabbed the towel and draped it over her. “You found her. You get naming rights.”
“She had a collar. She’s probably already got a name.”
She wiggled under my hands as I rubbed her furry little body dry. “Maybe she deserves a new one. A new name for a fresh start.”
He eyed me for a long beat until I wanted to squirm under his perusal. Then he said, “You hungry?”
“Scout? Lucky?” I peered down at the now clean dog as I programmed a pot of coffee.
Nash looked over from the pan of eggs he was scrambling. “Scrappy?”
“Nope. No reaction. Lula?” I sank down to the floor and clapped my hands. She pranced over to me and happily accepted my affectionate petting.
“Gizmo? Splinter?”
“Splinter?” I scoffed.
“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Nash said, that hint of a smile visible again.
“Splinter was a sewer rat.”
“A sewer rat with martial arts skills,” he pointed out.
“This young lady needs a debutante name,” I insisted. “Like Poppy or Jennifer.”
No reaction from the canine, but the man in the room worked his way up to a full smirk of amusement. “How about Buffy?”
I smiled into the dog’s fur. “The vampire slayer?”
He pointed the spatula at me. “That’s the one.”
“I like it, but she seems ambivalent to Buffy,” I observed.
I could have gone next door to change while Nash made breakfast, but I’d decided instead to pull on his sweatshirt again and hang out. He—unfortunately—had changed, putting on a clean shirt and jeans.