Page 285 of Trouble from Abroad
Her eyes narrow, but she never pulls away. “Yeah. That’d be great, thanks.”
When I come back, Mia’s curled into one corner of the couch with the TV menu still waiting for a decision she hasn’t made. “Couldn’t find anything good. Want to give it a try?” She hands me the remote and takes her mug from my hand, setting it on the table to cool. I set mine beside it, take my seat, then tug her feet into my lap.
“Oh.” It slips out when I dig my thumbs into her sole and press upward. “Is there anything you can’t do with those hands, Doctor?” Her head has fallen back, and her eyes are closed.
Of course my mind goes there, but sex isn’t part of the plan tonight. “Don’t know, Miss Thorne, but I’m up for the challenge,” I say anyway.
She laughs—rough silk, private just for us both. I’d hoard the sound if I could.
“I saw Kate today. She’s doing better than I expected. She moved her big toe on command. Twice.” I try and fail tokeep the pride out of my voice. It feels so good, sharing this with her. Natural too.
Her head snaps back up, and her eyes shine brighter than they normally do. “Pres, that’s amazing. And on your first surgery back. Wow.”
I pause, letting her praise sit with me. “You’re the reason I’ve got the fight back in me, Mia. Don’t ever doubt that.”
She looks at me like she wants to argue, but is holding it in. So I don’t allow time for her self-doubt to creep in. I gesture toward the stairs. “If you haven’t settled on a show, I started a bath for you. Just need to top it up with hot water. Add some oils. There’s a towel warming on the dryer.” Hope tugs at one corner of my mouth, but I rein it in. “No strings. No expectations. Let’s call it… gratitude bubbles.”
Her lips part, unsure, but she smiles at the ridiculous name I made up.
“I’ve never had one of those before. What exactlyaregratitude bubbles, Doctor?” She’s hiding in humor, behind flirtation. It only sharpens my resolve—how clearly I see through her.
“You, sinking into hot water and bubbles, wrapped in the fanciest jasmine scent I could find, while I work the knots from your shoulders and tell you more about my small wins today. I’d love to hear about your day too. Or your plans, if you feel like sharing.”
Her breath stutters. I’ve walked into a minefield. I see her mind reaching for excuses, so I press forward before she can run. “I’ve made a list of my own, you know.” Her chin tips up, curious. “Maybe you can read it in the bath?”
“Oh? Is it a dirty one?” Sweet Mia, still convinced she can flip this on me. My laugh comes out rougher than I intend.
I lift her foot and give her big toe a playful nip. “You already covered that so well, Trouble. So mine’s different.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
mia
Making a detour to my room,I peel off my clothes and throw on a robe. Before I tie it shut, I catch myself in the mirror. The robe slips right back down to the floor because, apparently, I’m staring now.
And for once, it’s not to rip myself apart. It’s not to find the angle where I look smaller or to zero in on stretch marks.
It’s just… me. And I’m not hating it.
Yes, I’m bigger than ‘average,’ but average by whom? Not the man waiting for me upstairs. He can’t keep his hands off all I see. And I’m… seeing myself a bit differently now.
My boobs are full and overflow my palms when I hold them. I used to think that was a disaster—spent years smashing them into minimizer bras so they wouldn’t draw attention. But Pres feasts on them, licks and sucks until a live wire runs from my nipples to my clit. I roll them between my fingers, stopping only when they’re hard and aching for Preston’s mouth. They look even prouder thisway, and that’s exactly how I want them to be when I drop this robe again in front of him.
It’s wild that my brain isn’t tearing me down. Instead, it’s collecting evidence. Proof that soft is sexy. That my curves are worship material. The mirror is reminding me that the skin I used to curse is the same one Pres can’t stop kissing. His praise has short-circuited years of bullshit, rewired something I didn’t know could be fixed. The mirror isn’t a firing squad tonight. It’s just showing… me. And I actually like what I see.
I pad down the hall, up the stairs, enter his room and push the bathroom door open. He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, steam rising around him as if he personally designed the atmosphere. Candles lit, bubbles piled high, towels stacked military-perfect on top of the heater. And him—leaning against the wall, watching me as though I’m dusted in starlight.
I hold out one end of the robe’s tie for him, offering myself as a gift, his to unwrap. He takes his time, tugging the knot open slowly enough for my skin to warm up in anticipation. His hands slip inside, caressing my shoulders until the robe hits the floor. His eyes drink me in with such devotion, it tells me the mirror was right before: my body is his favorite thing in the world.
Something in me straightens, lifts. I stand taller under the weight of his stare, proud instead of apologetic. Confidence buzzes through me like champagne, and I test the water with the tips of my fingers before dipping a foot in.
Preston is as smart as he is a control freak. No amount of begging, bargaining, or strategic pouting gets me his list until those fingers work their magic into myneck and shoulders, leaving me floating for reasons that have nothing to do with being in the water.
Only after he tells me about his day and beams at my reluctant admission that I updated my resume, does he finally hand over his list. The creases in the paper attest that it’s been folded and unfolded too many times to count, and I revel in his anxiety. It feels good not being the only one with a thundering heart, afraid it might stir waves in this bathtub.
Not knowing what to expect from his list is driving me insane, so I don’t hesitate. I shake the droplets from my fingers and open it at once. Gravity fails, and I sink deeper into the water, choking on his neat handwriting. It reads:
1. Survive cleaning up Lily’s birthday party without a doctor’s note for glitter poisoning.
