Page 132 of Steamy Ever After

He didn’t believe a woman like Erin could cry. Or, if she did, the tears would steam or hiss or some demonic shit like that. Yet, the tracks of makeup on her face showed signs of real tears—lots of tears—and he worried he might be responsible for a few.

When he spotted her outside of the motel, standing back in the snow with nowhere to go, guilt rode him hard. What if he’d been too rough on her at the bar? Erin never pulled her punches, and the last thing he needed was a situation with a heckler in his hometown. YouTube trolls would love that.

So, he let her have it. He heard one snotty sneer from the back, realized it was her, and gutted the bitch. He wasn’t fifteen anymore. This was his livelihood—or at least he was trying to make it into some sort of a survivable career. He put a lot into his acts and while he might be on a stage telling jokes, this wasn’t a joke to him.

“Towels are on the rack behind the door,” he told her, pointing to the bathroom door where steam still billowed from his shower.

“There’s hot water?”

He shrugged and dropped onto the bed, grabbing a book from the nightstand—anything to not look directly at her. “Gas heat, I guess.”

He didn’t let out a breath until he heard the bathroom door click shut and the water turn on. Exhaling, he lowered the book then frowned at what he was reading—The New Testament. He tossed the bible aside.

How long would she be here? No cell service, no television, no radio, no clue when the snow would stop. No food, aside from the plate of cookies his Aunt Rosemary gave him yesterday, which—fuck!

He’d left the damn cookies in the trunk of his car.

A nip of regret chewed at his insides for not staying at his parents’ house. But he couldn’t deal with them right now. Things were finally happening. He was booking gigs and getting paid on occasion. He didn’t need their negativity. Not everyone in this family wanted to grow up and retire from the lumberyard.

The shower turned off and he tensed. Now what? He glanced at the bible. Nope.

There was nowhere to hide. Nothing to use as a distraction.

Grabbing his room key, he shoved his feet into his dry sneakers and bolted out the door.

Erin’s body had been so cold, the heat of the shower hurt. She had finally regained feeling in her arms and legs, but her toes were still numb.

Not yet ready to leave the steamy sanctuary of the bathroom, she gathered her dripping hair over one shoulder and gave it a squeeze, wringing out the mass of thick blonde waves.

A small leather case sat beside the sink and she dipped a finger inside, pulling the narrow opening wider so she could review its contents. A thin-toothed comb. Perfect.

She worked the comb through the tangles of hair, but without conditioner, the strands formed one long mess of knots and snarls. Using a dry washcloth, she wiped away the steam on the mirror and winced at her reflection.

Angling her face to the side, she examined the bruise on her cheek. “Thanks, Dad. Another beauty.”

Digging through her purse, she found lip gloss, lotion, liner, and a compact mirror, but no concealer to cover a bruise. The rattle of something caught her ear and she fished her hand deeper in the bag, pulling out her father’s sleeping pills.

A full prescription. Enough to stop a human heart from beating. Enough to stop it from aching.

She threw the pills back into the abyss of her purse and glared at her reflection. She was stronger than that.

Her shoulders sagged and she stared at the drain of the sink. If she was so damn strong, how come she always felt so tired?

Helping herself to Giovanni’s mouthwash and toothpaste, she brushed her teeth with her finger and braided her hair out of her face. The room on the other side of the door sounded quiet. Maybe he fell asleep.

Sleep was good. It gave them space from each other and room to think. Last night she’d drifted off on top of him, surprised she even managed to fall asleep. She was pretty sure she’d hit her head when her car went off the road and had a mild concussion. Maybe that was why she’d been able to sleep in someone else’s presence. Usually, sleeping next to anyone made her painfully uncomfortable.

It had been an extreme circumstance. She’d just been in an accident. This was the part where a normal person would think, gosh, I’m lucky to be alive. But, was she?

Her dress sat in a damp heap on the floor, just beside her ruined shoes. Peeking into the motel room, she looked for Giovanni and found the room silent and empty.

Spotting a small suitcase on the only chair, she glanced at the door. Would he mind? She was in a towel, for God’s sake. She needed clothes. She’d pay for the damn dry cleaning if he said something.

Crossing the room, she flipped open the luggage and paused at the sight of scribbled notes. Pages and pages of jotted down bits lay on top of his clothes. She read a few lines and rolled her eyes, supposing that could be funny if anyone with an actual sense of humor said it.

Sliding a plain white T-shirt out of the suitcase, she closed the lid and returned to the bathroom. The material covered her to the knee.

She hung her dress over the shower curtain rod with her towel, and rinsed her panties in the sink, leaving them discreetly draped over the faucet in the tub to dry.

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