When Sparks Fly

He turns away, so I can only see his profile and not his eyes. His jaw tics and he exhales heavily. “I don’t know. I made a bad call, and now it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life, because the end result is that I broke you.”

I feel his remorse, but my frustration overshadows everything, particularly since his answer doesn’t tell me anything. What makes everything worse is that all I want is to be left alone for a while, but I can’t get myself out of this bathroom without help. “At least it’s nothing permanent, right?” It comes out bitter and with venomous bite. I’m not being a very nice version of myself.

“I know how much you hate having to rely on someone else, Ave, and I’m sorry that it’s me you have to lean on right now, but please let me help you however I can. I’ll do whatever you need me to. Do you want me to call your sisters and see if one of them can come over to help with the bath? Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it,” he pleads.

I close my eyes on a long sigh, hating myself for taking this out on him. “Don’t call my sisters.”

If London thinks this is too much for Declan to handle, then she’ll most definitely try to get me to move in with her and Harley. They’re already under enough emotional and mental strain as it is without me to help manage Spark House. I can’t be dependent on them to take care of me too. There is a lot that I want for Spark House and that can’t happen if their attention is on me.

“Let’s get this shower thing figured out, so I’m clean and frustrated instead of filthy and frustrated.”

9

SHOWER TIME

AVERY

I manage to get myself into a pair of bikini bottoms and a top, but I require Declan’s help to tie the one side and fasten the clasp in the back. The bath bench has been moved into my bathroom shower, and Declan helps me into the tub and hands me the removable handheld showerhead.

I’m inordinately thankful for waterproof casts. I can’t soak in a tub or anything, but at least I can get clean without worrying about keeping them out of the spray. “I’ve got it from here. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” I’m calmer than I was before, still frustrated, but not quite as heated.

“Okay, call me if you need me for anything.” He closes the door behind him, and I exhale a slow, steadying breath.

This is so much harder than I thought it was going to be.

The hot water feels like heaven, though. I set my body poof in my lap, squirt some shower gel on it, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent—so much more appealing than the generic crap at the hospital. I take my time washing away several days’ worth of grime. I can’t move very fast regardless, but this is the first time I’ve had a shower in the privacy of my own home since the accident, so I’m going to enjoy it, challenge or not.

I spend longer than necessary between my thighs; even with the cleansing wipes I’ve been using post-bathroom trips, my lady bits can use the extra attention. I exhale a shuddering breath as my fingers skim over sensitive parts. I have no idea how long it’s going to be before I can get myself off. My dominant hand is casted, and everything is awkward and unnatural with my left hand. I shut that line of thinking down, aware it’s not helpful with my already dour mood.

I manage to shave my leg and under one arm, but I can’t get a grip on the razor with the casted hand because my thumb is stiff, and I have very limited range of motion.

I give up and move on to my hair, which proves to be another difficult task. One-handed hair washing is a serious pain in the ass. I can’t adjust the spray properly, and my hair is so dirty it needs a solid lather and more than one round of shampoo for it to feel properly clean. Beyond that, keeping my arm above my head makes my ribs ache. I end up with soap in my eyes and shout my displeasure, dropping the showerhead. It clatters into the tub with a loud bang, my shampoo topples over, and it has a domino effect, sending a bunch of bottles tumbling into the bottom of the tub.

The showerhead bumps around and spins out of control, spraying across the vanity and floor. It’s a damn mess.

Declan doesn’t bother knocking, just busts right in, eyes wide and frantic. “What happened?” His timing couldn’t be more perfect; the showerhead does a spin, spraying him across the chest. His bare chest.