Page 31 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

"Chill, I'm not trying to look at you like that."

"Wow," I scoff. "Thanks."

"Well, do you want me to? Make up your mind, little tornado." Archer walks away, going over to the counter and wiping the water off the sides of the bottles in his grasp. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."

He leaves a moment later, not giving me a chance to protest or say anything.

I stand there, a bit dumbfounded, and crank the heat back up to where I had it, mumbling under my breath at Archer and his audacity.

It takes me two whole minutes under the blazing water to come to my senses.

The situation isn't ideal, but Archer is offering to wash my hair, something I can't manage on my own. Sure, it's weird and awkward, having some man I met a few days ago washing my hair, but I don't really have any other options unless I suffer my way through it myself.

I pat my body dry and wrap a large white towel around myself before making my way out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, my wet feet leaving a trail that will no doubt infuriate Archer. It's just water, it will evaporate eventually.

When I arrive in the kitchen, I find Archer rolling a towel up and setting it near the sink. His gaze flickers up at me, returns to his task, but then quickly falls on me again.

"Hey, so I, uh, I was thinking it would be easiest for you to lay on the counter and put your head in there." He points to the long island where the sink is located.

"Okay." I stroll over and stop next to the counter, realizing I can't boost myself up with my injured arm.

"Right, yeah." Archer seems to understand the problem immediately, and comes to my side as I face him.

I look up and put my arms out to give him space.

"I'm going to touch you, okay?"

I swallow and nod.

Archer puts his strong hands under my armpits and lifts me onto the counter with ease. His eyes meet mine, his grip still tight and gentle all at the same time.

"Thanks," I whisper, our faces just a breath apart.

"Yeah." Archer releases me and steps back. He walks around the side of the counter. "Lay back," he says, his hand hovering behind my head. "I've got you."

With his help, I comply, resting my neck on the towel he had bunched up and leaning the rest of my head into the sink area.

He turns the faucet on, adjusting the temperature too many times until he gets it right. Archer covers my forehead with his left hand and pulls the nozzle down to spray my hair. The water is lukewarm at best.

"You can make it hotter," I tell him.

"I'm sure you'd like that."

"I would, you're going to freeze me to death."

Even with his palm covering my eyes, I can make out him shaking his head.

"Were you personally victimized by hot water?" I ask him.

He stops, moves his hand, and says, "What?"

"It was a joke, Archer. Have you ever heard of those?"

Archer doesn't answer me, yet continues his task, returning the nozzle a second later to put some shampoo in his hands. He lathers it up before running his tattooed fingers through my hair, and I'm not entirely sure I haven't died and gone to heaven when he massages my scalp.

"Fuck," I mutter, but nothing like the fucks I was letting out in the shower.

"Am I hurting you?"

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