“You can close the door first.”
He was still giving her a wide-eyed look as she shut the bathroom door on him, trusting that he’d obey her. Ainsley smirked as she heard the water run, then the rustle of fabric as he stripped down.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” he griped through the door.
“Yes,” she replied, ignoring the strange look Abshir was giving her. “Just do it.”
A moment later, he stepped out, his face and hair damp. “Fine, but I’m not doing the lotion.”
“It doesn’t have a scent. It won’t make you smell flowery.”
“It’s not that.” He looked around, but no one else was listening. “It’s kind of a trigger for me, autism-wise.”
“Oh. Of course.” She felt stupid for not having realized that earlier. She lowered her voice, mindful that he’d tried to ensure privacy in the moment. “What if I did it for you?” She was used to doing things for small people: tying their shoes, wiping their noses, cleaning up their scraped knees, drying their tears. Helping a sensory-sensitive adult friend protect his skin just felt . . . natural. “Then you only have to feel it a little bit.”
“Okay.” His voice was soft, but not sullen. If anything, she noted a spark of curiosity in his gaze. That little zing, that little interest, had her hypersensitive, and she wondered if she’d made the wrong decision in offering to help. Because she wasn’t supposed to let herself fall for Kyle; their closeness was proving dangerous already. That’s how she’d gotten her heart broken before. She found her purse in the kitchen. “That reminds me, my phone’s dying, too.”
“You should charge it.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
Kyle scowled at her. That was too harsh. He’s just trying to help. Her heart felt like a mud puddle—undiscernible, murky—and each interaction just added more ripples to the mess. At least the day was almost over. The phone situation happened to her fairly often, so she had a charger in her purse. She pulled out her lotion at the same time.
“What are you up to tonight?” she asked as she took his right hand, holding his gaze, and rubbed the lotion into his skin gently but thoroughly. Her intent was to distract, but she found herself struggling to stay focused on both tasks at once.
“Not much. I have some medical journals to read.”
“No video games?” she teased, gasping in mock shock.
“There might be video games,” he admitted. “But I also need to clean my house. My brother’s a slob.”
She laughed and picked up his other hand while he was distracted. “That he is. But won’t you miss him? I can’t imagine living in that big, drafty farmhouse by myself. I like having people around.”
“You don’t like my house?” he asked, suddenly intent on her. It was not lost on her that he hadn’t answered the question about Daniel . . . she had a suspicion that he felt more emotional about it then he was letting on.
“No, I like it.”
“But you wouldn’t want to live there?”
“No, I would, just not by myself. If there were more people, it’d be fine.”
“It is a little drafty,” he said, sounding troubled. “Maybe I should work on that. I could replace the windows.”
“Just throw on a sweater. That’s the Gary Buchanan school of thought when it comes to heating, anyway.” Looking down, Ainsley realized that she wasn’t just rubbing the lotion onto his hand, she was massaging it . . . letting the warmth from his comparatively giant hand seep into her own, pressing her thumbs deeper into the tendons, letting her fingers explore all the delicate skin between his fingers. She drew back suddenly, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“There you go!” she said, her voice sounding too chipper to her own ears. “All done!” Tone it down, Ainsley, she chided herself, then, needing a distraction, she turned and began to gather things up for the end of the day. In no time, she was juggling a can of blue paint, two hammers, a caulk gun, an extension cord, and a painting drop cloth. The brushes were still soaking in the house . . . someone had left them before lunch without cleaning them. She’d gotten to them just in time.
“You’ve got that stuff, honey?” her dad called across the yard, his breath clouding in front of him. The sun was starting to tint the horizon orange, and the chill in the air was getting stronger.
Ainsley nodded to her father. “Yup, I’ll finish up with the tools. You can head on home.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” He gave her a prickly peck on her cheek as she passed by, then turned back to his conversation with the regulars. She shifted the tools in her arms as they started to slide.
“I got it.” Kyle caught the extension cord as it started to fall, looping it around his forearm.
“Look at you, coiling cord like a pro. You’d never know you were just a dumb doctor.”
He scowled at her. “Do you want help or not?”
“Your help? Always.” The scowl softened then, and the heat in his gaze made her stomach flip-flop. So apparently, that made up for her snarkiness earlier. He’d been doing that at pickup with Cooper, on their ride over today, on the way to the beach, basically ever since they’d talked after the town meeting. Ever since he’d asked if she was getting married. Kyle wasn’t being forward exactly, just . . . intense. Even more intense than usual. She toed the trailer door open just enough for them to slip inside, leaving it mostly darkened.
“Where do you want this?” he asked.
She sighed. “I don’t know. Just dump it on the floor. I’ll have to put it in order next weekend, I guess.”
“You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know . . .”
“It’s just easier.” She turned to find him very close, closer than she’d realized. It’s just a small space. He didn’t move out of her way. It was the same kind of concern he’d shared in the tent at the beach when he’d rendered her speechless with his blatant honesty. Truth be told, she had lost some of her sparkle in the last few years, and she wasn’t really sure why that was.
“Ainsley . . .”
“Yes?”
“When was the last time you were kissed?”
“Kissed?” She wiped her dirty hands nervously on her jeans. “In college, I guess. My last real boyfriend, senior year.”
“That’s five years ago. How is that possible?”
She blinked, trying to understand his words. “What?”
“I asked,” he said, putting his hands on her upper arms, rubbing lightly, “how it’s possible that in five years, no one has asked to kiss a woman so gorgeous, capable, and effervescent?”
“Effervescent?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not an antacid.”
“I beg to differ. You always make me feel better. You make me feel . . . lighter.”
“That’s weird,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “You know what else is weird?”
“What?”
“You’ve stopped trying to impress me. You stopped wearing makeup to the site. You’re wearing pants with holes at the knees and faded flannels. But instead of repelling me, it has me wanting to corner you in a dark trailer and kiss you until we’re both gasping for air.” His hands slid simultaneously up her arms and into her hair, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.