“Did you decide which one?”
I hear a light chuckle on the other side.
“No. I’m still considering my options.”
“What are the options?” I shake my head at myself, one arm propped high on the doorframe, opposite hand pressed flat on the door. In no time at all, I went from don’t be the creepy guy to this.
“Are you going to make me shout them to you through the closed door?”
“Are you inviting me in?” I volley back.
There’s a beat of silence and then a simple, “Yes.”
I swallow, assessing myself. My speeding heart rate, the towel tied tightly around my waist, my wet hair dripping down onto my bare shoulders. I probably look just as out of control as I feel.
Not for the first time, the promise of Bailey makes me totally impulsive.
I reach for the door handle, turn it, and walk straight into the bathroom. The air is thick with humidity, coating the mirror in a light layer of steam, and everything smells like lavender. Bailey’s tiny head pops up out of a heaping pile of bubbles. The way she has twisted her hair on top of her head matches their shape.
She looks fucking perfect in the massive, oversized bath—rosy cheeks, eyes a little glassy, and her lips tipped up. The earthy tile surround matches the tones of her hair and skin so well. If I didn’t know any better, I would say I designed this bathroom knowing how perfect she’d look in my tub.
My eyes snag on the pink razor resting beside a fresh white bar of soap on the tub’s ledge.
“I definitely thought you’d be too chickenshit to come in here,” she taunts with a smirk. The water shifts beneath the bubbles. No doubt her hands are moving under the water.
“You don’t know me that well, Bailey,” I reply, shutting the door behind me.
Her eyes race over my body, eating up every inch of bare flesh.
“I know you’re scared of losing control around me.” Her chin tips up as though she’s told me something that will make me back down. Run me off.
It doesn’t.
“No, I’m scared of you becoming something I can’t live without.”
She sucks in a breath as I stalk confidently toward her.
“I’m scared of taking something I don’t deserve, something we both know will lead to a bigger mess than we’re already in.”
I kneel beside the bath, propping my elbows on the edge and staring her down.
“This isn’t a mess—”
“I’m scared of having to go to work tomorrow and spending all day with a hard-on because I’m wondering if you went for a triangle or strip.”
All she does is stare back and breathe heavily as I reach into the hot, soapy water and trail a hand over her thigh to her knee. Leaning closer, I whisper against her ear, “And I’m fucking scared of what I’ll do when the day comes I find out some other fucker gets to help you decide these things.”
She regards me carefully, arms propped on the ledge, breaths even but shallow, dark eyes sparkling like the river at 2:11. My palm slides up and down her thigh, never going too far.
“Okay, but tonight … are you helping me or leaving?”
I mull the question over, telling myself I should leave while admitting to myself I’m not sure why I think I need to. Is it because she’s younger? Is it because I’ve become borderline obsessed with helping her and I worry that this will all just hurt her in the end?
Or am I worried it will hurt me in the end? I don’t know if I can handle being hurt anymore.
She squeezes her thighs together, trapping my hand between them and forcing my eyes from the crackling bubbles up to hers.
We stay like that for a beat, and then I say, “Helping you.”
26
Bailey
I thought he’d leave. I thought he’d say my name in that one-word scolding way of his. The one that says stop, you’re testing my patience.
But he didn’t.
And now I don’t know what to say back. So I nod, stomach aflutter, words failing me.
I’m scared of you becoming something I can’t live without.
File that away under sentiments I don’t know what to do with.
I ease off on squeezing his hand between my legs and search his face for any sign he might back out. That he might come to his senses and walk away. I don’t want to tie my self-esteem to a man’s response, but if Beau Eaton walks out the door telling me this was a mistake, I don’t know how I’ll look him in the eye again.
“So,” my voice cracks on a suddenly dry throat, “triangle or strip, what’s better?”