Page 44 of Rescued by the Single Dad

He opened the door to find her standing at the sink, balancing on the tippy toes of one foot, doing her best to stay off the bandages.

“Tub or shower?” he asked.

“Tub, please. I need to soak. Everything is still really achy.” Not seeming bothered at all, he looped one arm under her legs, the other around her back and with zero effort and no manly grunts, he carried her over to the soaker tub. “In you go,” he said playfully. “I assume you can figure it out from here?”

“I think so,” she replied.

He set her down carefully, but when he went to pull away, she yelped.

“What’s wrong?” he paused with his arms still around her.

“I ... I think my hair is caught on your button.” Like yesterday, he wore a sexy plaid button up and jeans. That seemed to be his go-to wardrobe.

“Shit. Okay. Sorry.” He leaned back, but she yelped again.

“How did this happen?” She glanced down between them, but somehow her hair had wrapped around his button enough that she could barely tilt her head to see what was going on without it pulling on her scalp.

“Hang on,” he said, letting go of her, but remaining bent over. He brought his hands between them and started to work the buttons free of their holes, however, somehow, maybe it was a ghost that shoved him, or he lost his footing, but just as he released the last button, Clint lost his footing and he fell on top of her, face-first into her breasts. “Shit!”

His arms flailed as he blindly searched for the edges of the tub with his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, still slightly smothered by her chest.

He must have really lost his balance because, as she tried to help him, she noticed over his shoulder that one foot was now in the air.

To be fair, it was a really deep tub.

He finally hoisted himself up by the edges of the tub, but her hair remained tangled in his button.

Clint’s heavy breathing stirred dangerous things inside of her, not to mention his manly woodsy scent and the heat radiating off his body.

“Fuck, Brooke, I’m so sorry,” he intoned. They were practically nose to nose.

And at that moment, she completely forgot about her cut-up feet, her hair tangled around his button and the fact that he’d just left a face print in her breasts. All she wanted was his lips on hers. His body on hers.

She swallowed and her gaze fell to his mouth.

His lips were full and hedged by his nicely trimmed dark beard.

Licking her lips, she pulled her eyes from his mouth. “It’s okay. Total accident ... right?”

“Of course it was,” he exclaimed, almost like she’d questioned his chivalry. Then he peeled off his shirt over his head without even completely unbuttoning it. “There.” He stood up to his full height, his face flushed, chest lifting and falling rapidly beneath his ribbed white tank top. The tattoo on his chest and along his collarbone peeked out again. This time, she could have sworn she saw the top of a bird’s head. An eagle maybe? He also wore a chain necklace, and from what she could tell by the imprint beneath his top, he wore dog tags.

The tank top wasn’t completely opaque and the shadow of the tattoo, which appeared to be quite large, was noticeable the longer she stared at his well-defined chest.

With her pulse racing and temperature ratcheting up to volcanic levels, she made quick work untangling her mane from the buttons, then thrusted the cotton button-up back toward him. “Thank you. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, accepting the shirt. “I lost my footing. The tub was deeper than expected when I bent over. I ... I never meant ...” His gaze landed on her chest, and he scratched the back of his neck before looking away. “I didn’t mean ...”

“It’s okay.” She needed to put the poor man out of his misery. “Accidents happen. It’s all good. Thank you for carrying me up here.”

Clint’s grim smile told her he was going to be mentally flagellating himself once he left the bathroom. Meanwhile, she would spend her bath wishing he’d taken it further. Wishing he’d kept his face there, or better yet, moved his mouth higher. Like to her lips.

He walked over to the cupboard where the towels were kept and grabbed her two big fluffy white ones, along with a washcloth.

“What time are you heading to work?” she asked, worried that she was monopolizing his regular working hours.

“Normally, I’m there by now. But I’ll keep myself busy here until you’re ready to get out. Not a big deal.” His smile wasn’t convincing or reassuring at all. And he left her zero room to argue because he closed the door, leaving her with her cut-up and infected feet, confusion and arousal in an empty bathtub.

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