Page 66 of Vows in Sin
Her fingers are gentle. Nimble. She moves with confidence. I love that she trusts herself, like she knows she’ll love her creation before she puts paint on the paper. She brushes the hair off my cheek onto the towel that covers my shoulders and smiles like it doesn’t matter that I’m a mess.
“I could’ve had one of the men help,” I murmur. “You don’t need to take care of me, you know.”
She tilts my chin with two fingers. “I wanted to.”
She wanted to.
God help me.
She helps me dress, long manicured nails brushing over my bare chest as she eases my hurt arm into a sleeve. “Easy does it.”
Her touch is so tender it almost brings tears to my eyes. Her steady, feminine presence has been sorely missing from my life.
And she’s tough. She doesn’t flinch at the raw edge of the bandages or the angry red scar running up from under the collar of my white dress shirt. The sling returns. She adds the cufflinks with practiced fingers. She opts to rest the navy suit jacket over my shoulders.
My one rule. No tie. I never wear a tie.
She eyes my healing burn. “Not tonight.” She agrees with a note of challenge in her voice.
“Not any night.” I go gruff, informing her, “Ties are for men who drink tea from cups and saucers and polish their shoes and take daily vitamins.”
“Hold up,” she says, a hand on my shoulder. “You mean to tell me you don’t take a daily vitamin? At your age?”
I reach over, giving her ass a good smack. “Respect your elders.”
She giggles. “What else do men who wear ties do?”
“They name their kids Humphrey. Todd. And Tilly.”
“I like Tilly. That’s cute.”
“Men who wear ties hold their teacup with their pinkies up and say things like ‘Good day,’ and ‘tickety-boo.’”
“Tickety-boo?” She hides a giggle. “What does that even mean?”
“How do I know? I don’t wear a tie.” I feel…silly. I rub my beard. “Yeah. Fucking, tickety—forget it.”
“Well, I for one would never put a delicate teacup in harm’s way by handing it to you.” She grins. “No tie tonight. But maybe one day.” She tosses me a wink.
Like she knows she’ll get me in a tie one day. Hell, maybe she will. One day.
I’d do almost anything for that woman. After the way she’s cared for me today, she’s practically got me wrapped around her own delicate little pinky finger.
When she’s finished with me, she turns us both to face the mirror, admiring our reflections. Even with no necktie, I look like I belong at the table of Bachmans. Next to her, I feel like a fraud.
She’s a goddess, come down from Mount Olympus to help the one-armed monster on his quest.
“You clean up nice,” she whispers, sliding her hands to my shoulders.
I grunt. “I’m an old man in a young man’s suit.”
“You’re a distinguished-looking man who’s got a head full of wisdom and the heart of a lion,” she says. “You’ve aged to perfection, like fine wine.
I look over at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She reaches up, brushing her fingers over my jawline. “And you look good in a beard.”
A beat passes.
