She’s watching me, chest rising and falling a little too fast, eyes a shade too dark.Steam from the tub curls around her cheeks, lifting strands of her damp hair in soft, loose waves.
There’s a smudge of ash at her collarbone she’s missed, and something in me wants to reach out and brush it away the same way I did in the kitchen, which is exactly the kind of thought I need to shut down.
I don’t.
I look away instead, jaw tight, and push to my feet.Grace Buchanan is the last complication I need right now.I know that.I believe it completely.I wish the rest of me was listening.
My teeth grind together at my own absurdity as her shoulders drop by degrees.“You’re officially handier than you look.The whole bus thing aside.”
“I choose to take that as a compliment.”
Her laugh lands squarely in my chest.Too accurate.
She leans over the tub to re-wet her hair, and when she reaches for the shampoo, her slick fingers slip, the bottle hitting the porcelain with a hollow clatter.Grace curses under her breath, and before I can think better of it, I’m already reaching.
“Here.”I pick up the bottle.“You missed a spot earlier.I can …?”
She freezes, glancing up at me from beneath damp lashes.“You’re offering to wash my hair?”
I hear it then.How it sounds.How it could sound.
“Not like that.”My tone comes out higher than intended, maybe because part of me wants it to be exactly like that, or maybe I have no idea what’s happening to me anymore.“You’ve still got soot in there.It’ll clog the drain.”
Her lips twitch.“Sure.This is about your plumbing.”
“Yes.”
Something in her expression softens in a way that makes the small bathroom dangerously intimate.
“All right, Coach.”A sly smile.“Show me your technique.”
My pulse stumbles.The room shrinks, steam thickening the air between us.
She settles on the floor with her back against the tub, angled toward me, and I perch on the edge and ease a small amount of shampoo into my palms.
Her hair is softer than I expect, silky and warm and heavy between my fingers.Clean, understated floral notes rise with the heat, threading into my lungs like something I could crave.
We fall quiet, nothing but the gentle rush of the faucet and the slow rhythm of my hands working through her hair.
She murmurs a low, appreciative sound.“I’m guessing this isn’t in your coaching job description.”
“Not usually part of practice.”Why the hell does my voice come out husky like that?
She laughs, a quiet, breathy sound that travels the full length of my spine.
“You can relax, you know.”I gently tug at the roots of her hair, mostly to distract myself.“I’m not going to break you.”
“What?”
“Your shoulders are practically up to your ears.”I work the soap through the strands, careful and deliberate, painfully aware of every point of contact.
My knees are a breath from her shoulder, face inches from hers, fingertips grazing her scalp with a lightness I have to concentrate to maintain.I guide her back under the water and rinse out the soap, watching it run clear in thin rivulets down her neck.
She tilts her head toward me, eyes half-closed, mouth quirked.“Maybe I’m on edge because that’s what you do to people.”
“What?Drive them to the brink of insanity?”
“Something like that.”