“Time for a rinse?” he asked, turning on the warm water. He pulled the detachable showerhead free and offered it to her. “Ready?”
He pushed the pin in on the faucet and water sprayed from the handheld shower nozzle.
“Ryder,” she squeaked. “I wasn’t ready.”
She was dripping wet, so was the ceiling. And the cat, and the small mirror over the sink.
“Ready now?” he asked, trying hard not to laugh.
She glared at him, shaking her hands at him and spattering him with tomato juice and water. “Yes,” she hissed, aiming the nozzle at him.
“Hey, hey.” He shook his head, holding the still-wailing Tom in front of him. “Aim for him.”
“You’ve got a little something right there.” She pointed at his chin.
“Let’s get him taken care of first.” He used his pickup voice, all low and coaxing. “Poor little guy could get a chill.”
Annabeth rolled her eyes again, but immediately began rinsing Tom. A little baby shampoo and the cat was clean. He placed the kitt
en on the bathroom counter and started rubbing the squirming kitten brusquely with the one towel she’d left in the bathroom. “Hope you haven’t lost your appetite?” he asked, looking back at her.
She stood, rinsing herself off with the showerhead. Her pale blue tank top was plastered to her, giving him a good view of her breasts. He’d imagined her, plenty of times, remembering the full weight of her curves beneath his hurried hands. But seeing her, knowing his fantasy didn’t come close to the woman who was now his wife, did something to his insides.
“Well, hello there,” Annabeth said to Tom, who was straddling the side of the tub, swatting at water drops. “You survived.” The kitten mewed as she picked him up and sniffed him. Her nose wrinkled. “Better than it was, but...”
She was staring at him. He was standing there, gripping the damn towel, staring right back. In a yellow raincoat. What the hell was the matter with him? “Need a towel?”
“Sure,” she murmured, her cheeks turning red as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Thanks.”
He opened the bathroom door and Tom skittered out. “You go on and shower,” he murmured, pulling two towels from the built-in cabinet outside the bathroom and placing them on the counter. “I’ll finish getting Tom dry and warm up our breakfast.” He pulled the door shut and stood there, staring at the door.
Chapter Eight
Annabeth wiped the steam off the small bathroom mirror and looked at herself. Her breathing was uneven and her stomach twisted. Not because the lingering scent of skunk still hung in the air, but because of the look in Ryder’s eyes. She didn’t know what to think. Was she seeing what she wanted to see? Or was Ryder attracted to her? Could he actually see her, want her, as a woman?
She combed through her wet hair, tucked the towel tightly around her chest and opened the bathroom door. Tom was sitting right outside, his fur sticking up every which way.
He mewed at her, weaving his way between her ankles.
“Glad you don’t hold a grudge,” she spoke softly, smiling down at the kitten.
“Starting a load of laundry,” Ryder called from the kitchen. “Wanna hand me your clothes and the towel?”
She peered around the corner to find Ryder pulling off his shirt and throwing it into the washing machine. The muscles in his back shifted and the waistband of his pants slipped low. His body was amazing, strong and capable and completely mind-blowing.
Swallowing, she hurried back into the bathroom, snatching her clothes and towels. Why was the sight of a shirtless Ryder getting her all flustered? She shot a look at her reflection. She’d been without a man for five years. No dating. No flirting. Nothing. Now she had someone who looked as though he’d stepped out of a muscle magazine stripping in her kitchen. Add in her raging pregnancy hormones and it made sense that she was a little disconcerted.
She strode back into the kitchen and shoved everything into the washing machine. But when she spun around, Ryder was staring at her.
She met his gaze. “Your turn.” It shouldn’t matter that she was wearing only a towel; she didn’t have anything to put on after her shower. And she looked like a drowned rat.
The muscle in his jaw bulged. “My turn?”
“Shower.” She swallowed. “It’s all yours.”
His attention wandered to her mouth. “You want to wash my back?” He reached for her, the pad of his thumb running along the curve of her neck.
She froze, fighting the slight shiver that ran along her spine. She would not press herself against the expansive wall of muscle that was his chest.