I cried during sex, but I refuse to cry during our shower. I just got Lincoln—I mean really got him—and if I’m not careful, he’s going to think I’m a basket case. My emotions have been running high with the end of school and the stress of finals and studying for my state boards and Mo’s wedding and then all this stuff with Lincoln. I’m sure it’ll get better when things calm down, but it’s hard to push the feelings away when he’s being so sweet.
A tear leaks down the side of my cheek, but easily blends into the droplets of water already gathered on my face.
“Turn around.”
I blink away any remaining tears and follow his command. Lincoln washes the front of my body with the same gentle hand he used on my back, and when he’s done, my muscles and bones feel relaxed, and I could easily crawl into his bed naked and take a nice long nap.
Bu
t first.
“My turn.” I take the loofah from Lincoln and squirt on another drop of body wash. Using the loofah and my free hand, I work the soap into his skin, admiring the way his muscles flex and tighten as I roam over his body. When I get to his legs and feet, I look up, and Lincoln smiles.
It isn’t his normal, happy smile. It’s reserved. Almost shy.
I can’t help but think about his past and his childhood and those pictures hidden in his closet. Hasn’t anyone ever cared for him like this? Didn’t his parents love him and bathe him growing up the way most parents do? The thought of a young Lincoln leaning over a tub to wash his baby sister is too much, and I have to look away.
“What are you thinking right now?” he asks.
I want to be honest, but I don’t want to admit to snooping through his closet. One of these days—when he’s ready—he’ll tell me about his past. I want it to be on his terms.
“That we’re pretty good at this shower thing. We should bathe each other more often.”
“I second that idea.”
I stand, rinse the loofah out, and hang it back on the hook. Then my stomach lets out a loud gurgle, causing both of us to laugh.
“Come on, let’s feed you.”
Lincoln scoops me up and steps carefully out of the shower. “I can walk, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you always carrying me?”
“Because you fit perfectly in my arms. Why do you always call me Lincoln?”
“Because that’s your name.”
He nips playfully at my neck and stands me on the rug where he proceeds to dry me off with a towel. “I know, but everyone else calls me Linc.”
“Would you rather I called you Linc?”
He shakes his head and looks up before wrapping the towel around my hair. “No. I like that you use my full name. I was just curious.”
“Do you want to know the real reason? It’s kind of corny.”
“Now you have to tell me,” he says, grabbing another towel for himself.
“You’re kind, honest, caring, hard-working, and you worry about those around you. Remind you of anyone else with the same name?”
With the towel wrapped around his lean hips, Lincoln pulls me in for a hug. He presses his lips to my head and laughs. “I remind you of Abraham Lincoln?”
“Why are you laughing? It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny. He was a president. I’m just a…washed-up bull rider.”
“You’re not a washed-up bull rider. You’re more than that, and he was more than a president. He was a good man.”