His words pitched low, and the cadence of his voice is so soft and so sweet sounding, it’s all I can do not to lean in to him. Instead, I sort of force my butt along the wall, sliding in the direction of my bedroom.
My bedroom.
Virgin man-territory.
The room. And me, I suppose, since I moved into it. Revirginized, anyway
But then, as we pass the bathroom, a thought occurs to me.
‘Douche?’
‘J’espère sincèrement . . . I sincerely hope you don’t mean that in the American way.’
Judging by his expression, maybe that was the wrong word.
‘Gel douche? That’s shower gel,’ I murmur to myself. ‘The word for shower is in there somewhere.’
‘Vous êtes adorable . . . You’re adorable when you’re concentrating, do you know that? You do this thing where you roll your bottom lip inwards, which is not only cute but also very sexy. I think you probably pull the same face when you’re touching yourself.’
I stumble backwards a little, my insides pounding to the beat between my ears as it appears as though he’s about to caress my lip. Clutching the doorframe with my hand, I slip into the tiny bathroom, immediately grabbing a fresh towel from the shelf. I drop it over the edge of the tiny tub. ‘It’s the one thing this apartment is missing. A tub I mean. Well, not the one thing. But it’s the one thing I miss. Prendre un douche!’ I announce, the words somehow slotting together in my head.
‘Était-ce une invitation . . . That seemed more like a demand than an invitation to shower. Is there room for two? Will you’ll scrub my back for me?’
‘That seemed like a lot of questions.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know what the answers are, but I know you can’t get your stitches wet.’ Pushing up onto my tiptoes, I turn and I grab Sarah’s shower cap from where she’s stashed it before pushing it into his hands. ‘Here, you can use this.’
‘Trés attrayant . . . very attractive.’ He quirks a brow, his expression painting a thousand words.
‘It’s not a fashion show. No one is going to see.’
‘Il ne doit pas y avoir . . . There’s to be no back scrubbing, then?’ He stares at the cap in his hand as though alien.
‘I’m just gonna . . . leave you to it,’ I say, sliding between Remy and the basin, then closing the door behind me.
I blow out a breath, long and hard, as I rest my back against the wrong side of the bathroom door. I’m not straining to hear, well, not much, but I swear I hear the sound of his zipper shortly followed by the thud of his boots—one, two—hitting the floor. His belt buckle clangs against the tile and, oh, my, I have a naked man in my bathroom. Naked but for a floral shower cap. But naked—butt naked!!
I slap a hand across my mouth to smother a near hysterical snigger as the shower curtain screeches once, twice, the shower squeaking in protest as he turns it on. The next sound is the one that propels me along the hall long after I should’ve already left. A low groan of appreciation sounds as the water hits him, the tenor almost pornographic.
‘I’m not thinking about him,’ I mutter, pulling open the hall closet and throwing his awful shirt into the washing machine. I briefly consider slipping into the bathroom to grab the rest of his clothes—and not because I’m thinking about him, all slick and sudsy in the steamy room. Much. ‘I’m also not thinking about spying on him. I’m just what you might call a considerate host.’
I decide against the laundry dash, mostly because I’m a chickenshit. Powering on the machine, I exhale a harsh, ‘Shit!’ at the same time as Remy’s yell sounds from along the hall.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ The washing machine and the shower do not exist in any form of symbiotic harmony. Quite the opposite, because if the washing machine is switched on when the shower is running, the water feels like it’s being pumped from the Arctic.
I hurry along the hallway to shout my apologies when a loud thud sounds from the other side of the bathroom door.
Oh my God. He might’ve slipped and fallen with the shock—please not a concussion on top of a concussion. I’m supposed to be looking after him, for God’s sake!
‘Remy?’ I call, hammering the side of my fist against the door. ‘Remy!’ I twist the handle, too worried to wait when the door springs wide, and I stumble against an expanse of toned and tan chest. Under my fingertips, his skin is warm and smooth and so very firm.
‘Rose?’ Did you know you can actually hear someone smile?
I don’t look up, and I’m not sure my reluctance stems purely from embarrassment.