Page 45 of The Long Way Home
Rhett pushes himself up from the floor, bracing one arm against the doorframe. His T-shirt is damp at the hem from kneeling in the mess, clinging to him in a way I have to force myself not to stare at. His eyes flick over me, lingering a little, and I suddenly wish I could have changed into anything else before he came over.
I swallow, self-conscious, and pull my arms tighter across my chest. “I look ridiculous,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
I watch him swallow, and he looks so serious. But then just as I’m about to question it, his expression flips. He grins, easy and a little lopsided. It’s the same grin that used to drive me crazy for entirely different reasons. “Next time, Rach,” he says, “maybe just call me as soon as the water starts flying out.”
My stomach twists. He’s teasing, but there is something underneath it. I think he actually means it. And damn it, I hate how much relief rushes through me at the fact.
I press my forehead against the wall, closing my eyes. I try to ignore the heat creeping into my cheeks despite how cold I am. Because as much as I want to be annoyed at him, to dismiss that grin and the way his presence fills up the hallway, the truth is inescapable:
I’m glad it was Rhett.
And that thought scares me more than the flood ever did.
Rhett wrings out another towel, and I can’t help but watch his forearms flex. He tosses it into the growing pile by the door, then straightens, giving me that look again. The one that makes me feel like he sees right through me.
“You’re freezing,” he says as his hands come to my arms. His palms are warm—too warm—and I tell myself it is the contrast that makes a tremor break through me. “Go take a hot shower, and I’ll clean up here.”
He rubs up and down my arms again. Goosebumps rise instantly, traitorous and obvious. I pray he doesn’t feel the way my breath stutters.
“You have a guest shower, right?”
“Uh, no, but I’m fine,” I lie, though my teeth betray me and chatter hard halfway through. “It’s my mess anyway. I should help clean it up.”
“Rachel, you’re dripping, shivering, and turning blue.” His jaw works once, controlled. “I’ll step out, and you…” His throat bobs. “Get naked and yell when you’re in the shower, and I’ll come back and clean up.”
Heat flashes through me at the mere suggestion. My body wants to obey his command, but I remember who is in control. I fold my arms across my chest, partly stubborn, mostly hiding how my soaked shirt clings to everything it shouldn’t.
“I can’t just leave you to—”
“Sunny.” His voice turns low enough to curl around my bones. “Shower. Now. Before you get sick. Or worse, before I pick you up and toss you in there.”
My breath catches. Not because I think he’s joking, but because based on our history, I know he isn’t.
“The head is still off,” I protest weakly, pointing at the busted shower.
He steps into the bathroom and brushes past me. The air seems to recalibrate around him. His scent is warm and familiar, settling low in my stomach and triggering a flutter I refuse to acknowledge, let alone examine. He reaches for the detached shower head and reattaches it with quick, practiced movements.
I watch his hands without meaning to. Strong. Sure. Veins stand out along his forearms as the metal twists into place, muscles tightening and releasing with unconscious precision while water splashes over his skin.
What is wrong with me? I am an overly educated woman, trained to analyze, to question, to rise above this sort of primitive distraction. And yet I am standing here, inexplicably mesmerized by the way his arms flex while doing something so painfully ordinary. I practically can feel the drool forming. He should not look this good fixing a shower.
“There,” he huffs. “It’s fixed.” He steps toward the doorway but pauses when he reaches me. His eyes drag from my soaked shirt down to my jeans, then away so fast it almost hurts.
“Yell when you’re in,” he murmurs, voice thicker than before. “I’ll come back.”
And then he leaves.
The door shuts softly behind him.
My heart pounds as I peel off my clothes, each layer sticking stubbornly to my skin. When I reach my bra, my hands hesitate—ridiculous, considering he isn’t even looking—but the idea of Rhett in the other room, knowing I’m naked just feet away… it sends heat straight through me. How am I supposed to shower with him in here?
I hang my soaked things over the counter, trying not to imagine him seeing the outline of them. Trying not to imagine anything except the water.
I step into the shower. The first rush of heat hits my skin, and my knees nearly give out in relief. Warmth spreads through me slowly, thawing everything. My fingers grip the tile as I inhale.
Then—God help me—I raise my voice.
“Rhett? I’m in the shower!”
