Page 30 of Not a Strong Enough Word

That was that. I thought I understood at the time, at least as well as a ten-year-old boy could. But now, as Scarlett turns a page and shimmies a bit to get more comfortable, I realize that I didn’t understand at all. Because if anyone were to ask me how I feel about her, I’d probably tell them she’s it for me. And if they asked me how I knew, I could point to the weightlessness of her head on my chest, the effervescence of her laughter, the brilliance of her mind. But all of those things pale in comparison to the truth.

How do I know? I just do.

Chapter 15

Scarlett

Ryan must be applying for a promotion to sainthood. Not only has he brought me one of every kind of taco available to mankind, but he quietly cleans up my kitchen and draws a bath while I eat them. When I offer some to him, he shakes his head and tells me he ate already. I skip the shrimp taco and the carne asada one because I know those are his favorites. And when I offer them to him, he flashes me a wide grin and practically inhales them.

As he makes his way through my kitchen, tossing out containers and loading the dishwasher, I allow myself to watch shamelessly. The lean muscles of his shoulders stretch his pale blue, lightweight sweater. When he bends over to put a pod in the dishwasher, his glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them back up, then goes to check the bath, seemingly oblivious to my attention.

When he comes out of the bathroom, his glasses are fogged up. I laugh lightly, and his responding goofy grin would have my knees going weak if I weren’t already sitting down. There’s something about having him here again that has already lifted some of the crushing weight I had been feeling. And yeah, it could have been the tacos, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly him.

“Ready?” he asks as he leans against the doorway.

I don’t trust myself to stand steadily when he’s leaning and smirking and looking so adorably perfect. It’s almost like we haven’t missed a beat.

Some things never change.

“You make it sound like I’m in for an experience,” I deflect as I try to buy myself some time to get my libido under control.

“The Ryan Whitlock Bathing Experience is one unlike any other.” He tips is head back toward the bathroom. “Come on, beautiful. Let me take care of you.”

My mouth goes dry, and a warm heat pools low in my belly. “Are you… You’re not…”

His smile widens. “I won’t look,” he promises. “There’s a lot of bubbles.” A look of pure earnestness crosses his face. “I want to help, Scarlett. Please let me.”

I try very hard to swallow and bring some moisture back to my mouth to no avail. This is bonkers. I should absolutely make him leave. He’s done enough, and I feel better. I can probably take it from here. But what happens after this bath, when I get out and dry off and realize I still don’t know what to do with myself? And worse, what happens when he’s gone and I miss him again?

There’s no use denying it. I want him here, even if it’s a terrible idea.

There’s a quip on the end of my tongue about him trying to assuage some guilt for taking so long with my edits, but it dies there. All I can muster as I stand on shaky legs is an equally shaky, “Okay.”

He’s at my side in a flash with an arm around me for support. I don’t really need his help to walk the five steps to the bathroom, but I lean into him anyway. Even if it is a thinly-veiled excuse to feel the hard planes of his body pressed into mine.

When we get inside the bathroom, he takes a step back into the hallway. “Kick your pajamas out when you’re ready. I’m going to throw them in the laundry.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“I want to,” he replies quickly. “Besides, your kitchen towels stink.”

“Is that where the smell is coming from? Glad it’s not me,” I joke. He laughs lightly, and for a moment we both stare at each other, not quite sure what to do and both afraid to make the first move.

He blinks rapidly as he snaps back to his senses and steps out of my view.

Okay, then.

Leaving the door open a sliver, I shed my satin pajamas. These things have seen better days, that’s for sure. I’m not sure I could identify the stains on them anymore. I kick them out into the hallway, then lower myself into the tub.

Ryan wasn’t kidding. There are a lot of bubbles, and the water is almost scalding, which is exactly how I like it. I’m touched he remembered such a simple detail.

The idea of a baptism pops into my head. It’s a great symbol, though it does get used fairly often. But it’s nice to think that your sins and worries can be washed away with some water. Worth a shot, I think as I plug my nose and dunk my head under. When I come up, I don’t feel any better than I did before, though my face thanks me for this bare minimum of cleanliness. I can’t remember the last time I washed my face, either. Dianne would shake her head in dismay if she knew. That’s one of the things she urges me to do every day, even if I don’t feel like it. Oops.

I hear the laundry machine start through the wall, and I relax against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes and letting the heat of the water and the rhythmic whirring of the machine lull me into something close to peace.

Vaguely, I’m aware of the door opening and closing, then the sound of a shampoo bottle snapping open. There’s a presence next to me, warmth radiating off of him and his almond-and-vanilla scent mixing with the lavender of the bath. I’m suddenly too tired to open my eyes or protest. Nothing he hasn’t seen before anyway. The thought has me smiling.

“Something funny?” Ryan asks, his voice low and soothing. I want to crawl into the sound of it and sleep.