Page 42 of All Her Broken Pieces

“Fuck that,” he says as he crosses to the linen closet and pulls out a washcloth and a towel. After turning on the faucet and adjusting it to the right temperature, he soaks the cloth and rings out the extra moisture as he turns to me, his eyes roaming up and down my body as though he’s a starved man and I’m something he plans to devour.

Feeling a little embarrassed like I’m being examined under a microscope, I slowly turn and offer him my back to start. “I think I’ve earned the pickle story now,” I proclaim, proud of myself for the baby steps I’m taking with this man.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “But it’s really embarrassing. Promise you won’t make fun of me.”

“I make no such promise.”

He carefully cleans my back, lightly scrubbing me with the warm soapy cloth before patting me dry with the towel. He moves on to my arms and shoulders, being careful not to aggravate the pain in my shoulder as he washes.

Just when I think I’ve pushed him too far with the teasing, he turns my body to face his and our eyes connect. Looking down at me, he slowly moves from my shoulders down my chest, and I suck in a deep breath as warmth pools in my core. His deep voice is low when he starts speaking.

“I had to lead service one night, and I hadn’t done laundry in a while and all my chef pants were dirty. Alyx gave me a pair to borrow, but they were a little tighter than I was used to. I wasn’t too worried about it since my apron would cover me.”

“Why is it kind of hot picturing you dressed as a chef?”

“Behave,” he warns as his cloth massages my breasts, cleaning in small circles before he wipes away the moisture with the towel.

“Do you wear the little hat and everything?” I question through shallow breaths trying to focus on his words and not the feelings he’s awakening in my body.

“I have a chef hat that I earned from culinary school in Italy, but I don’t usually wear it. I normally wear a black Aussie chef box hat if I’m leading service. Otherwise, I wear a ball cap.” His hands move beneath my breasts as he cleans the area right above my incisions. “You’re missing the point. The important part of the story is my pants, not my hat.”

“Just painting a mental picture of what you look like in uniform.” I chuckle as he kneels and begins his focus on my feet, moving up my legs as he continues.

“Anyway, I was leading service, and a guest asked to speak with the chef. It’d been a busy night, and I’d forgotten about my pants. I walked over to the table and had lifted my apron to wipe my hands off so I could shake the guest’s hands when a little girl at the table loudly declared, ‘Look at him, mama, he has a pickle in his pants!’ She said it loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear. I was mortified.”

“Wait, I thought you said this was embarrassing? Aren’t most guys proud of having a big dick?” I ask as he finishes the front of my legs and grabs my hips to spin me to face away from him.

“Well, the little girl didn’t mention the size of the pickle, so the kitchen staff got creative. Now, when I run a dinner service, the staff will refer to me as Pickle. Instead of ‘yes, Chef,’ it’s ‘yes, Pickle.’ I can’t tell you how many times they refer to my ‘little gherkin.’ And it’s not like I’m going to whip my dick out and correct them. So now my unofficial nickname is Pickle. Every time we get an order for extra pickles, the wait staff will toss some at me like I’m a stripper. It’s humiliating.”

“I don’t see what the big dill is.”

He groans. “Fuck, not you too. I knew this was a bad idea.”

“Pickle puns must be your bread and butter.”

He playfully smacks my ass before palming it in his hand and squeezing it through the fabric of my shorts. “Jesus Christ, why aren’t you wearing any panties?” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“The extra fabric on my waist kept rubbing on my dressings, so I took them off.”

“If I pull these down?—”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea to finish that sentence,friend,” I say, half-warning, half-teasing. We can’t do anything about these feelings right now anyway.

“Got it,” he says, pushing up to stand. He gestures to the towels. “I’m going to go start a load of laundry for these and my apron. Do you have anything else I could throw in for you?”

“Sure, there’s a little bit in the hamper by the door.”

Gripping the edge of the counter for support, I let out a breath. The air in the room feels colder now that he’s gone, and my brain doesn’t know how to process that information. The temperature wouldn’t actually lower enough for my body to notice a difference just because there’s one less body in here. But it’s not my brain that’s registering these changes right now. It’s my heart.

This man. Fuck.

CHAPTER14

Ethan

With each daythat Bridget doesn’t kick me out, I feel one step closer to scaling her walls. Granted, these are most likely little hurdles, the kind used in track meets. I imagine the walls only get higher and stronger—fortified with brick and mortar—the further she lets me in.

I’m determined to show her how good we could be together. Last night’s sponge bath was a huge step for her. Although I had to give up the pickle story and endure her teasing me with the title too, it’s worth it if it brings her amusement. I have a feeling she needs more light moments like that in her life, and I want to be the one to give them to her.

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