Page 126 of Hat Trick

“I don’t have that many products.” My hand shakes as I pull open a drawer and grab a brush. “Here.”

“Close the lid and sit on the toilet for me. I’m going to brush your hair, get you cleaned up in the shower, switch your sheets, then make you some soup. You’re dehydrated, and you need to get some nutrients in your body.”

“I can?—”

“Do it yourself? I know you can. But here’s the thing, Lexi. I’m not going to be able to sleep. I’m not going to be able to eat. I’m not going to be able to doanythingexcept wonder if you’re okay and taken care of. Put me out of my misery andlet me do it for you.”

His words are sharp, punctuated. I sit on the toilet, my back to him. It’s my acceptance of his offer, a hesitant transfer of power I so rarely relinquish. I can feel his relief through his exhale, and the second the bristles of the brush run through my hair, the tears fall again.

“Do you have a lot of experience brushing a woman’s hair?” I ask.

“You’re the first. How am I doing?”

“Really well. You’re a natural.”

Riley is gentle. He doesn’t yank on the knots but takes his time, working in sections until he can run his fingers through the dirty strands without causing me any pain. When he finishes, he turns on the shower, his hand under the water until he’s satisfied with the temperature.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, and I scramble to reach for him. Now that he’s here, I don’t want him out of my sight. “You okay?”

“Can you stay?” I croak. “Please?”

I’ve never relied on a man before for anything. Every part of me wants to scream at him to leave. The push for separation and creating emotional distance is embedded in my DNA, so why am I so determined to keep him around?

“Of course. I can’t get in there with you. My prosthetic isn’t waterproof, but I’ll be right here, okay?”

“It’s not?” I frown, never considering the logistics. “How do you shower?”

“I take baths. I have a shower stool. They make other prosthetics that can get wet, but mine’s too high-tech to submerge,” Riley explains.

“Ah. That makes sense.” I take off the sweatshirt and the T-shirt underneath it. I shimmy out of my underwear and get rid of the single sock. When I’m naked, I look up at him and find him watching me. “What’s wrong?”

“You wear my sweatshirt around the house.”

“Oh.” My toes nudge the discarded hoodie. It still smells like him, the trace of his soap and cologne clinging to the cotton like it doesn’t want to leave. “It’s comfortable. And it was the first thing I could find to put on so I could warm up.”

“Have you worn it before today?”

Almost every night, because the fabric is soft and well-loved through years of wear, and it always feels like he’s hugging me when I put it on. But I shrug at his question, too embarrassed to tell the truth.

Here’s Lexi Armstrong, the former queen of independence who is turning into a damn sap.

How the hell do I make it stop?

“Once or twice,” I say, and I’m certain he can see right through me.

Riley hums but doesn’t say anything else. He holds my hand while he helps me into the shower and stays close like he promised. After I’m clean and my skin is almost raw from the hot water, he wraps me in a fluffy towel and deposits me on the living room sofa. He adds a blanket around my shoulders and another over my legs, and the last thing I remember before I fall asleep is his lips pressing a kiss to my forehead and feeling so unbelievably content.

THIRTY-FIVE

RILEY

Me

Can you do me a favor?

Huddy Boy

What’s up?

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