by Heidi Betts
Truth was, his knee was thoroughly fucked up, which made getting in and out of the tub nearly impossible. On top of that, when he did make it inside to shower, he had to sit on a plastic stool like some ninety-year-old invalid. He’d rather stand out on the balcony buck naked during a thunderstorm than use the freaking thing, but the current temperatures didn’t exactly make that an appealing prospect, and no rain was expected for at least another month or two.
If Grace hadn’t prodded him with her damn bony fingertips and elbow, he wouldn’t have bothered getting out of bed, let alone climbing into the shower. But she’d insisted, promising him a cup of hot coffee as soon as he was finished, and using her body as a crutch to help him hobble to the bathroom.
A body that was wrapped almost head to toe in some soft, pink velourish stuff. No one could pull off pink quite the way she did, even if it was of the track-suit variety.
The fact that she had JUICY stamped across her ass didn’t help matters, either.
Having her see him like this …not just injured and more under the influence of booze and meds than he’d have liked, but helpless and needy and pitiable …made him feel even worse than the throbbing in his head and queasiness in his stomach. It made him feel like less of a man.
And given how much less of a man he’d felt the past several weeks, that was really saying something. He was surprised someone from the Man Club hadn’t come by to revoke his dick and balls.
A tap on the door made him jerk in surprise, and he dug in even harder with the bar of soap.
“You okay in there?” Grace called through the closed wooden panel.
Yeah, hunky-freakin’-dory. Just a grown man, in the prime of life, sitting on an invalid stool to wash his ass crack.
In answer to her question, he couldn’t work up much more than an annoyed grunt, but he knew she heard him because she responded brightly, “All right, let me know if you need anything. Your coffee is ready when you are.”
The promise of caffeine—and possibly a bottle or two of aspirin—spurred him to speed up his motions. He finished lathering up, then pushed himself none too easily to his feet to grab the handheld shower head. He had to sit back down to rinse, but got the job done in record time before he leaned forward to shut off the water.
Grabbing the fluffy white towel from the toilet lid where Grace had set it for easy access, he rubbed it over his hair, then started to dry the rest of his body. Before he got past his chest, another knock sounded, and the bathroom door swung open.
“I heard the water stop, and figured you could use a hand,” Grace informed him, moving closer.
To her credit, she kept her attention locked on his face. If their positions had been reversed, he didn’t think he’d have the same self-control. If she’d been sitting in the tub, naked but for a bunched towel covering her sweet spot, he’d have been looking everywhere but at her face—and imagining what was under the towel, to boot.
Of course, he knew what was under that hypothetical towel, the same as she knew what was under the one he was currently holding over his crotch.
Not a good direction for his thoughts to be traveling right now. Imagining her naked, remembering the things they used to do together both with and without clothes on, was a one-way ticket to a woody he definitely didn’t need at the moment.
Bad enough that getting turned on when he had nothing more than a bath towel to hide it would make the condition kind of hard to miss, but getting turned on in front of his ex-fiancée was akin to smearing honey on his junk and walking into grizzly territory.
No, thank you. That kind of ridicule and degradation he could do without.
“Swing around, and I’ll help you out,” she said, stepping forward.
And speaking of humiliating experiences, his inner Bob Barker announced in the same booming voice he might use to invite someone to “Come on down!”
All the same, Zack swiveled around on the stool, carefully lifting his injured leg up and over the edge of the tub, putting weight only on his good leg as Grace gripped his elbows and helped hoist him upright.
The towel fell to the floor, and she bent to retrieve it, wrapping it around his waist herself, then tucking in the ends while he kept his hands firmly on her shoulders. She didn’t seem the least uncomfortable with his brief nudity or the need to assist him with basic activities he should have been able to manage on his own.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same. This whole bloody mess made him uncomfortable. From needing help to get around his own apartment, to having his name and photo splashed across the front pages of newspapers and magazines, along with headlines speculating on whether he’d be back in his position as goalie for the Rockets by next season or was becoming Cleveland’s version of Howard Hughes.
The Howard Hughes thing hadn’t actually sounded like such a bad deal until about…oh, eight thirty-five this morning. Something about having his ex carry him to the bathroom and help him wash his balls just took all the fun out of becoming an eccentric recluse.
“You could use a shave, too,” Grace decided suddenly. She pointed to the closed toilet lid and gestured for him to have a seat.
He followed the direction of her finger, but stayed where he was, balanced none too steadily on his right leg.
When he didn’t move, she cocked her head, a question clear in her eyes. “What?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied tightly. “It’s winter. A beard will keep me warm.”
Her lips pursed a moment before one corner turned up in a grin. “What’s the matter—don’t you trust me so close to your throat with a razor blade?”
His own mouth twisted. “I don’t trust you anywhere near me with anything sharper than a ball of yarn.”
As soon as the words were out, he muttered a silent curse. Knitting references probably weren’t the smartest for him to be making. Not if he wanted to keep his little hobby a secret. And he especially wanted to keep it a secret from her.
One blond brow quirked up over her robin’s-egg-blue eyes. “You’d be surprised how much damage I can do with an innocent ball of yarn.”
Of that, he had no doubt. He was also intimately familiar with her talents with a Louisville Slugger, a pair of scissors, a lit match, and the most dangerous weapon of all—her dagger-sharp tongue.
“But I promise not to use your razor for evil, only for good. After all, if I’d come over here to hurt you, do you really think I’d have helped you get cleaned up first?” Her right brow lowered only to have the left rise in equal mockery. “If that had been my intention, I’d have done it while you were still unconscious.”
Pressing against his arm and chest, she maneuvered him exactly where she wanted him to go and got him lowered onto the commode.
“You were completely conked out when I got here,” she said, moving around the bathroom to collect what she needed. And she knew where everything was because she used to live here, too—at least part of the time.
“It took a lot to wake you,” she continued, shaking the can of shaving cream and squeezing the trigger to fill her palm with a heavy dollop of the thick white foam.
Then she began to spread it over his face. Cheeks, chin, above his lip. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes, pretending he didn’t want to see the razor in her hand, didn’t want to see her using such a sharp implement so close to his jugular.
The truth, though, was that it felt too damn good. It had been months—hell, going on close to a year—since she or any other woman had touched him. The most human contact he’d had since Grace walked out on him was the occasional slap on the back from his friends or a very manly group hug from his teammates when they won a game, complete with uniforms, helmets, sticks, and about ten inches of padding between each man.
Oh, and of course the wonderful poking and prodding from the doctors and surgeons after his injury.
But when it came to gentle caresses or sensual strokes of his skin …he’d pretty much been flying solo lately.
&
nbsp; He wondered how Grace would react if she knew he hadn’t been with another woman since she walked out on him. She would probably roll her eyes and give an unladylike snort. She didn’t believe he hadn’t been with another woman while they were engaged, why should she believe he hadn’t been with one since their breakup?
It was true, though, on both counts. Which probably explained why even the sensation of metal blades scraping along his jawline—combined with the soft press of her fingers on the other side of his face—turned his blood warm and sent it flowing in a decidedly southbound direction.
“So if you didn’t come over to smother me in my sleep or give me a Colombian necktie, why are you here?”
She hesitated ever so slightly in a downward stroke across his cheek. “Your friends were worried about you,” she offered softly.
He arched a brow. “And they sent you?” His voice went up at the end in surprise, even though he had to mumble the question because she’d moved to his upper lip.
Wasn’t that a bit like sending the fox into the henhouse to check on the chickens? The snake into the sparrow’s nest to check on the eggs? Jason Voorhees into the cabin to check on the campers?
“Only as a last resort. They all did what they could to pry your ass out of this apartment, but that same thick skull that kept you from getting brain damage when your head hit the ice is apparently making it hard for any sense to get through.” She waited a beat, tapping the razor on the edge of the sink to dislodge a buildup of shaving cream before adding, “They thought I might have more success getting through to you…maybe because I’m less inclined to let you get away with feeling sorry for yourself, and more inclined to inflict physical damage, if necessary.”
Of that, he had no doubt. Despite the damage she’d caused to his belongings when she’d gone off the deep end, he actually counted himself lucky to have been in another city at the time.
When he remembered that tumultuous week, he rolled his eyes at the notion that his friends had sent her over to motivate him out of his slump. Luckily, his lids were once again closed, so she couldn’t see the gesture. No sense pushing her buttons while he was at her mercy and she was still holding a sharp object uncomfortably close to his throat.
“And you think a shower and shave are going to do the trick?” he asked.
He heard the click of the razor against the sink again, followed by running water. A second later, something hot and wet hit his face.
He opened his eyes to meet her gaze while she stroked his newly shaven cheeks and wiped away stray remnants of shaving cream.
“Getting cleaned up is just the beginning,” she told him, tossing the washcloth into the sink basin when she was finished and opening the medicine cabinet to remove a dark brown bottle of Sexy Men aftershave.
His muscles tensed at the sight of it. When they’d first met, he’d been using some cheap, ordinary brand of aftershave and cologne. The stuff you can pick up at Wal-Mart or Rite Aid. He didn’t even have a favorite, just used whatever was on sale or grabbed his attention when the old stuff ran out. Brut, Aspen, Old Spice…and yes, even Aqua Velva. They all smelled pretty much the same to him.
Then he’d met Grace. No, not just met her, fallen balls over brains in love with her. So when she’d declared that his current brand didn’t suit him—he thought he might have been using a mix of Stetson and Old English at the time—he’d been more than happy to let her pick something new. Hell, he’d been as flexible as a Gumby doll, letting her choose his clothes, his shoes, his cologne, his hairstyle.
Not that he’d minded. He’d liked her choices, and hadn’t even known some of the stuff existed until she’d introduced him to it.
And if having him smell like a rain forest, pine cone, or ocean breeze turned her on, then he’d been all for it.
She’d had him try Angel Ice, Cool Water, Chrome, Dirty English (which had spurred so many jokes, they’d actually come up with a new sexual position to go with the name), Euphoria, and a few more. He hadn’t noticed much difference between them, and only remembered some of the names because the bottles had cluttered the vanity for months on end.
Finally, she’d narrowed it down to the two she liked best—Fahrenheit and Sexy Men. Frankly, he thought the name Fahrenheit sounded more manly than Sexy Men, but whatever revved her engine was a-otay with him.
She sprinkled a few drops into her palm, then rubbed her hands together before touching them to his cheeks, just the way she used to when they were together. Not every time he shaved, but some of them.
The sweet but musky fragrance tickled his nose and brought back a kaleidoscope of memories—all with Grace at their center, and most revolving around making love to her. They’d done it more than once in this bathroom, against this very countertop.
Something he didn’t need to be thinking about right now. Not if he wanted to keep from popping a tent under the towel covering his waist and making her think he was either A.) interested in starting up with her again, or B.) he was so hard up, he got turned on by any woman who happened to brush up against him—even one who’d wrecked his ride and stolen his dog.
Locking his jaw and curling his hands into fists, he chastised himself. Get your big head back in the game, Hoolihan, and your little head off your ex.
“What do you mean, the shave and shower are only the beginning?” he asked, recalling her earlier remark and suddenly being clear-minded enough to wonder about it.
“You’ve spent long enough holed up by yourself in this apartment, and enough time ignoring your doctors’ orders.”
He scowled, brows and mouth drawing down at the direction he suspected this was going. “What business is it of yours?”
“None whatsoever. Not anymore,” she replied flippantly, stepping away from him to wash the aftershave from her hands and put away the items she’d used to get him looking a bit less like Grizzly Adams. “Except that your friends seem to think that if I don’t sweep in to save you, you’re going to turn into some pathetic, housebound slob or end up doing yourself in with the sharp end of a Triscuit.”
Without turning her head, she cut her gaze to him, her blue eyes glittering with more than a touch of concern. “You weren’t planning anything like that, were you?”
“Suicide by snack cracker? Wasn’t part of my upcoming agenda, no.” He raised a brow. “So what do they think you’re going to do—sweep in with your sunny disposition and turn my world into rainbows and lollipops?”
She chuckled, proving that at least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor to all the bile and vitriol that had come to the surface last summer.
“Doubtful. They probably expect me to stick pins in your eyes and set your bedclothes on fire. But they’re desperate enough that I guess they’re willing to try anything. Or at least look the other way while I whip you into shape.”
“No whips,” he deadpanned. “I wasn’t into that when we were together, and I’m not into it now.”
Hitching a hip against the vanity, she murmured, “I don’t know. I still say that with enough pleasure thrown into the mix, you can learn to enjoy anything.”
Then she pushed herself away from the sink and slapped her hands together, rubbing them as though in anticipation of something truly delectable. “But you’re in no condition to fight me, regardless of how I decide to handle your rehabilitation, are you? You’re pretty much at my mercy.”
Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his ear, her cheek brushing his while her warm breath danced across his skin. He tensed, fighting the shiver that threatened to climb his spine and break out over the rest of his body.
“Be afraid,” she whispered. “Be very afraid.”
And then she straightened as though she hadn’t just delivered a veiled threat. “Now come on. Time to get dressed and get some breakfast before we have to leave.”
“Leave?” he asked, letting her drape his arm across her shoulders and hoist him to his feet like he was a child.
Or an invalid.
Or a sack
of rotten potatoes.
“Where are we going?”
“You have an appointment with your orthopedic surgeon.”
Reaching the bed, she turned him around and sat him down.
“I don’t think so,” he shot back.
“I do.”
She moved around in front of his row of dresser drawers for a couple minutes before returning to drop a pile of clothes at his side.
“This isn’t up for debate, Zack,” she told him in her best no-nonsense tone, hands cocked firmly on hips. “You’re going if I have to hit you over the head with a lamp and drag you there by the hair. So you can either dress yourself and go along under your own steam like a man, or you can be a big baby and make me force you to do the right thing. But know this: if I have to do the hit-and-haul thing, you’ll wake up looking like a drag queen, and I’ll make sure the press has plenty of opportunity to snap your photo.”
She stepped away, heading for the closet and rooting around on the floor. “I’m thinking a bright purple bustier, fishnet stockings, and a long black Catherine Zeta-Jones wig.”
Turning to face him, she held up a pair of well-worn Nikes. His favorites because they were Rockets blue and red.
“So what’s it going to be?” she asked. “Are you going to put on your big boy shoes all by yourself, or do I need to go out and find a pair of size twelve platform stilettos to go with your leather miniskirt?”
Row 7
She hadn’t meant to stick around. When Grace had agreed to pop in and check on Zack, her intention had been to do just that—pop in and pop right back out.
She’d forgotten how easy it was to be around him. How comfortable, even with the residual anger and suspicion of his infidelity bubbling at the back of her mind.
Shaving his face herself instead of simply handing him the razor and walking away had probably been a mistake. Maybe not her first one, or the biggest one she’d made that day, but a mistake all the same. It had been entirely too intimate an act, stirring up entirely too many memories of their time together.
