Page 41 of For the Win
On a normal day I avoid that particular species like the plague. But nothing about any of this is normal.
“Sounds good to me,” I tell him, enjoying the surprise on his handsome face as I walk over. “The company is stimulatingand I did promise to be a taste tester today. And if you have a computer with internet access and don’t mind being on a watch list or dealing with weird commercials, we don’t need the DVDs. I know exactly where to find the show online.”
He gathers the ends of my scarf in his hands and tugs me closer. “Stimulating?”
“You didn’t hear the part about the watchlist did you?” When he doesn’t respond, I nod and lick my dry, chilly lips. “Highly stimulating. Exceeding all expectations. If I had my gold-star stickers handy, you’d be getting one.”
He raises a brow. “Only one? I’ll need to work on that.”
This morning-after kiss doesn’t taste perfunctory or feel like a goodbye. It’s more a “The smashing is about to commence” early warning system that wakes up all the relevant parts of me when he presses me against his car.
I moan in reaction. Hot damn, neither one of us is ready for this to be over yet. Am I really considering what Bex suggested? Just giving this a chance and seeing what happens? No CYA? No Hover of Shame in sight?
Michael’s hand is working on my sweatpants when I grip his wrist.
He raises his head. “You want me to stop?”
Not even a little bit. “I want us to hit pause long enough for me to get a bath or a shower. I can barely stand to be around me at the moment and I wouldn’t mind being clean for…whatever comes next. Would you mind joining me back inside and helping me up the stairs?”
I’m not an eyelash-batting kind of guy—unless I’ve put on actual eyelashes meant for batting—but I give it a shot, and my payback is his broad, brilliant smile.
“I can do better than that,” he tells me.
I bet he can.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“I foundEpsom salts and the only bubbles that don’t smell like fake flowers in the cupboard. Something called lemon grass and ylang ylang.” Michael’s hand on my back is warm and sturdy as he guides me into the bathroom. “We’ll unwrap your ankle for this. I think the salts should bring down any swelling.”
This man needs to stop being sweet because I don’t know how to deal with it. He took care of me all day yesterday, and I loved it, don’t get me wrong, but things between us feel different now. Maybe because I’m looking at everything through a slightly different lens after that Bex call. Or maybe because I’m not used to someone being so focused on my needs.
Either way, this snowbound hand-fasting situation we’ve got going on here is making me feel vulnerable. What? He’s making me abubble bath. There’s nothing more domestic than that.
You might as well enjoy it. You never did get your hot stone massage.
I have a point. The bath is already running, there are two wine glasses full of cold juice beside a tub that should fit the both of us, and I’m a sucker because I’m totally into this. Where did cynical Win go? The Win who was only interested in one thing when it came to a man?
“I hope it doesn’t bring downallthe swelling.”
Whoop. There he is.
Michael’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t take the bait as he studies me. “I thought you said you wanted to be clean for what came next.”
I’m pretty sure that’s me, in case you were wondering. I’ll be the one coming next.
“I did and I do,” I say, my face heating at the steam…and possibly the direction of my thoughts. “No one wants to be the Thomas Paine at the party.”
He sits me down on the wide rim of the tub and kneels at my feet, taking my wrapped ankle in hand. “Tell me what Thomas Paine has to do with being clean.”
He actually asked for it. Voluntarily. How can I resist that?
“Do you know he only had six people at his funeral?” I inform him as he starts unwrapping the bandage. “And it wasn’t just his personality and behavior that alienated everyone he ever knew. He stank because he didn’t believe in personal hygiene. ‘The times that try men’s souls’ were probably times when they were locked in a closed room with that kind of body odor. Then the poor guy got dug up and taken to England by a superfan. And now I want a shower after my bath. And for us to rewind this conversation back to ylang ylang.”
Michael’s lips twitch as he rubs my foot gently. “You do this for your students, don’t you? Your unexpected but situationally appropriate outbursts of trivia.”
“Sure.” I watch as he tosses the bandage aside and gets back to his feet. “When we get to the Boston tea party, I usually take the opportunity to spill some tea of my own about every historical figure I can. Kids can relate to the Kardashian, Real Housewives and Traitors of it all. And if they can relate, they can remember.”
“I see it now. You as a teacher. You’re probably everyone’s favorite.”
