“Ten years ago, Alicia. If you think I was a saint ten years ago, think again.” Hell, at twenty-one, I’d been the furthest thing from a saint. “I don’t need to know the details to know that you weren’t in a good place. That’s not who you are now.”
“Oh? I’d say I’m not in a good place at all right now.” Her laugh is dry, like she’s testing if humor still exists.
I half-chuckle, then reach for her, squeezing her knee. “You know what I mean.”
She exhales, the sound half sigh, half surrender, and turns toward the window. Her fingers slide through mine, a quiet declaration: not done, not broken. “I’m still… I’m grateful you’re here. Many men wouldn’t be.”
“Maybe that’s true. But I doubt it.” My words are the absolute truth. “You didn’t kill anyone, Alicia. And even if the world doubts you, I don’t. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you’re innocent. And if someone is framing you—if this isn’t just half-assed police work—then they just slipped. Because you’ve got an all-star defense team, and they’re going to track down the source. By all accounts, the prosecution has a weak case. This is a bump in the road.”
She mouths the words: bump in the road.
She’s still dazed. Likely exhausted. I doubt she slept at all last night.
When I pull into her drive, the gate grinds open, metal on metal. Cold drizzle slicks the windshield. I pull in, and the gate creaks closed behind us.
It’s a cloudy day, brisk, and rain is forecast for the afternoon. A woman pushes a baby stroller while walking her dog. Cars pass back and forth on the front street.
No one’s lurking.
Satisfied, I enter the house, lock the door behind me, and reach for the remote that closes the shades. Sure, she normally keeps them open during the day, but she’s due some privacy.
“Can I get you something? You hungry?”
She braces against the island, palms flat on the marble, eyes unfocused—as if the weight of the world is pressing through her arms.
“I’m not hungry at all,” she says, voice airy, like she’s speaking to herself and she’s all alone. “I want a shower,” she says, a hint of finality to her tone.
“Understandable.” I want to follow, to guard, to hold. Instead, I stay rooted. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
She pauses at the stairwell. “Join me?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, just begins the climb. The soft thud of her bare feet on the stairs feels like an invitation and a test.
I fall in behind her.
In the bathroom, I reach past her, turning on the shower.
She undresses slowly, methodically, as if neatness might rewrite the last twenty-four hours. Each piece folded with the discipline of someone desperate to reclaim control. I undress too, my eyes moving over her with a hunger I don’t try to hide. She’s stunning—all elegant curves and creamy skin, the kind of woman who stands before a judge without flinching—and still trembles in my arms. The kind that undoes me without trying.
I reach for thick, white towels and set them on the counter near the shower for easy access.
She steps into the shower, tilting her head back, letting the water flow from her crown down. A cleansing.
I step in beside her and reach for the sponge hanging on the hook. I drip soap onto it and drag it over her shoulders, slow and deliberate, the slick trail of lather chasing my touch down the curve of her spine. Her skin is warm silk beneath my hands. She shivers despite the heat.
“Cold?” I ask, my mouth close to her ear.
“No.” Her voice is barely a word. “The opposite.”
Reaching around her, I wash her curves with unhurried care—the flare of her hips, the soft roundness of her belly, the long lines of her thighs. She leans back into me, her head tipping to my shoulder, mouth slightly open, lashes lowered.
I bend to kiss her. Light. Loving. No expectation other than I am going to take care of her.
I brush my lips over her cheek, then reach for the shampoo.
My fingers work the lather into her scalp, slow and reverent. She makes a sound low in her throat—not quite a moan, but close. Surrender in miniature. A memory forms unbidden—the way my father once washed my mother’s hair after her cancer diagnosis. Back then, I’d looked away. Now, I can’t look anywhere else.
I follow the shampoo with conditioner, marveling at the silky weight of her strands as they glide through my fingers.