I place the chair down in front of the basin and meet her gaze through the room-length mirror. “Are you still happy to do this?”
“Of course.” She nods. “Sit.”
I take my place on the chair, sitting tall. I’m determined not to let her nearness get to me. Not under my skin or in my head. It feels like a lifetime since I opened my mouth in Greece and let the stupidity of flirtation burst out. But my attraction hasn’t wavered. If anything, it’s intensified.
Seeing her all helpless and meek taunts me into protecting her. And that baggy sweater and the loose sweatpants do nothing to temper my memory of her perfect thighs, slim waist, and perky tits.
She’s a siren.
An intense trigger to my temptation.
She walks around me, moving to the injured side of my head, her eyes gentle as she takes in the healing wound. “It looks like you’ve been taking good care of it.”
“Haven’t taken much care at all. I attribute any awesomeness to the nurse who stitched me up. She did a remarkable job.”
A smile teases her lips. “I appreciate the praise. I’m also thankful you don’t have the ability to see the error of your words. The stitching resembles a hack job at best.”
“I’m not a pretty boy. I don’t care what it looks like as long as the risk of infection is gone.”
She reaches out, her fingers lightly brushing through the shortened lengths of hair around the wound, inspiring goose bumps to blanket my arms. “Your skin has started to heal over the thread. It might feel uncomfortable when I pull it out.”
I can smell her.
Actually, I can smell me on her, which is fucking worse. She must be using my shampoo. Even though I’ve placed five years’ worth of flower-scented products in her bathroom.
“Do your worst.” I swallow over the unwanted build of lust. “As long as you don’t leave anything behind, I’m good.”
She nods and grabs the blade and tweezers, dousing them in antiseptic, then returns to her position at my side. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
She is.
The agonizing discomfort of her proximity is fucking killing me. The curiosity surrounding her use of my shampoo is a thorn in my side, too. Why does she want to smell like me?
She leans in, those fingers resting against my scalp as her breathing brushes my skin.
She’s everywhere—in my lungs, in my head, forever in every room of this fucking house. And of course, my dick doesn’t want to miss out on the admiration. It twinges to life as I clench my jaw, hard, determined to keep my libido in check.
Her first nick of the blade is tentative. So goddamn gentle and feather-light.
“Don’t hold back, shorty. You’re going to have to be more firm than that if you don’t want to spend all day staring at my skull.”
Her mouth kicks into a smile, but she doesn’t change her tender style as she uses tweezers to gently pick at the cotton.
It’s nice to see her smiling. Really smiling. Not the fake-ass, untruthful curve of lips she likes to placate me with.
I can’t pull my attention from her as she works in silence, using the blade before tugging out a tiny strand of thread to place on the counter.
Bit by bit she removes the cotton, her breath a constant caress against my temple, her fingers an ongoing tease.
“Why don’t we start making that list?” I wait until she leans back to look at me before I grab the notepad and pen from the counter. “What small steps could you take to help kickstart your recovery?”
She winces. Shrugs. “I don’t know. Hasn’t stepping out of my comfort zone to open up to you been a big enough achievement for today?”
“Definitely. But this is for tomorrow, and the day after. Just one at a time, Pen. That’s all I’m askin’.”
Her sigh is slight, barely audible as she leans in and tugs another piece of thread from my skull. “I don’t know. I guess having the guts to call my sisters could be on the list. Or messaging my brother to tell him how I’m doing so Sarah doesn’t have to keep spying.”
I write both down in bullet points. “Anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I honestly don’t feel capable of achieving anything else. Not even those things I just told you. Having a list is only going to add more pressure and increase the sense of failure.”
She’s not a failure. Not even close.
“What if I write some ideas down?” I ask.
“Write all you like, but you need to be aware your understanding of who I am and what I’m capable of is completely warped. This is going to be too hard.”
No, it’s not. And my perception isn’t warped. If anything, I’m the only one who knows the real Penny and what she’s truly able to achieve. I’ve seen her at her worst. This person beside me is merely a shadow of the remarkable woman waiting to break free. “Trust me.”
There’s another sigh. Another brush of painfully gentle fingers. “I do,” she whispers. “It’s the fear of disappointing you that makes this harder.”
I don’t know what part of her admission surprises me most—the trust I never thought I’d receive or the sweet way she wants to impress me. Both have an unwanted effect on my dick.
“You’re not going to disappoint me.” I scribble on the notepad, adding more tasks to the list. “We only need to focus on one goal a day. If you achieve it, that’s great. If you don’t, we can try something else.”
She refocuses on her task, raising the blade to my wound, not acknowledging my words. She tugs at the stitches, placing more and more cotton on the counter.
I get that she hates being here—hates me pushing—but maybe Sarah is right. I can’t watch her wallow. If this tactic doesn’t work I’ll try something else. And if that doesn’t help, I’ll find another way. I’m not giving up on her.
I keep writing as she tends to my head, the two of us working in comfortable silence until she gives a final tug to the embedded cotton, then leans real fucking close to inspect her handiwork. “You’re doing a lot of writing.”
“I’ve got a lot of ideas.”
She sidesteps, the blade and tweezers dumped in the sink before she rests against the counter to stare at me. “Well, don’t keep me waiting. What are these great ideas of yours?”
“You sure you’re ready?” I ask. “This is going to change your life.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, plumping her breasts beneath the heavy sweater. “You’re well aware I’m not ready at all. So hurry up and get this over with.”
I chuckle, appreciating her underlying spite a little too much. “Okay. Number one.”
She straightens, as if preparing for torture.
“Watch a movie with me.”
I didn’t think it possible, but she stiffens further, her brows furrowing. “Watch a movie?”
“Yep. As simple as that. Sit your ass on the sofa and chill out to mindless television. It’s better than the isolation of your room or the deck.”
Those brows rise for long seconds before she says, “Okay. I can give it a try.”
“Number two—teach me how you do laundry.”
Her smile creeps back into the conversation, her brows knitting. “Laundry? Really?”