Page 93 of Getting Over You

Of course, I didn’t notice that—Cade was much too enamored with massaging pine-scented man shampoo into my hair. Or, I guessIwas too enamored with thefeelingof Cade’s hands massaging shampoo into my hair. It was our closest moment, the closest I’ve ever felt to who Cade truly is.

To who he wants to be, for me.

“Cade!” I call.

He clamors from his bed to where I am in the attached bathroom, opening the door an inch. Maybe two.

“Are you naked?” he asks.

“Yes. I need a towel. Please.”

Cade chuckles, and thirty seconds later, his tattooed arm is sticking out from behind the door, holding a towel. “Here.”

“You’ve seen me naked before,” I remind him. “A few minutes ago, actually.”

“This is a different kind of naked,” he says, and the statement makes my stomach jolt.

I get myself wrapped in the towel, making my way out to Cade.

“I may have forgotten pajamas.”

“Princess, you’re killing me.” He stands, walking over to his dresser and rummaging before pulling out a T-shirt. He starts to hand it to me, then switches gears. “Arms up,” he says.

“Give me the shirt,” I say. “I’ll go put it on.”

“We’ll slip this over your head,” Cade says, stepping closer to me. He’s warm, familiar, pine and clove, as he keeps the T-shirt from my hands.

I do as he instructs, lifting my arms. Cade holds my towel in place with one hand, deftly pulling the T-shirt over me with the other. He pulls the shirt down so it covers me to mid-thigh, then reaches up under the hem, his fingers moving up, up. “Andthen,” Cade says, making goosebumps rise on my skin and a chill cascade down my spine. He unties the knotted towel, his fingers steady. “We’ll get this towel off.” It pools at my feet.

“There,” he says. “All good.”

I never thought having a man help me dress was something that would ooze sex appeal.

But I understand why girls go to their boyfriend’s house without pajamas on purpose. Mollie did it once, and I thought that was the stupidest thing.

I get it now.

I totally, completely, undeniably get it now. Which leads me to stand here and gape at him, like a fish needing water.

“I think I’m feeling better,” I tell Cade, standing on my tiptoes to loop my arms around his neck. “Can I express how grateful I am? Do something in return?”

Cade rolls his eyes at me. For the first time ever, I think.

“No,” he says. “You just had the shittiest night ever. You aren’t about to go anywhere near my lower half, princess. No way.”

My heart does that thing again. Guys who don’t care wouldn’t be this respectful, right? Surely, a fling will want to fling you if asked, even after watching you cry and blubber about your sadness over a Styrofoam cup of strawberry ice cream.

Sex is sex.

“Come on,” I chide, my fingers tracing his waistband. “Please?”

His jaw clenches, and he steps away. I’m left cold, empty, missing his warmth.

“You,” he says slowly, “need sleep.” And then I’m airborne, only to be met with Cade’s bed.

I watch, bemused, as he wraps his comforter around my frame, tucking in the excess so I look like a human burrito.

“Cade!” I exclaim, laughing. “I’m stuck.” I wriggle, but to no avail. I really am stuck.

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