Jillian
DAWN IS DUE TO BREAK in less than an hour when I get him to the guest room. His injuries look worse in the light, marring his handsome face and obscuring any resemblance to Drew. I shove back another surge of anger toward his father. He sets the duffel on the bed and seems unsteady on his feet.
I point to the private bathroom. “Everything you’ll need is in there. Shampoo and conditioner are in the shower, there’s a new toothbrush and toothpaste in the drawer next to the sink, and extra towels are in the closet.”
He turns his back to me and his shoulders droop as he fumbles with the zipper of his bag. “I need help.” His voice is small and weary, catching me off guard.
“Um, sure. What do you need me to do?”
He sits on the bed, and wipes his eye—the one that’s not swollen shut. “I want to take a shower, but I . . . I’m feeling dizzy. I’m afraid I’ll pass out or something.”
Alarm bells sound in my head. Does he want . . . ? Is he asking . . . ?
“Can you help me?”
Keeping my voice steady, I ask softly, “Are you asking me to come into the shower with you?”
He nods, and dips his head. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds weird. I’m not being weird. Please don’t think that. I just want to feel clean.” His voice breaks and his hand trembles as he raises it to cover his mouth. Nurse Swenson warned me the concussion could cause erratic emotional responses for a while. His brain had a bit of a jostling. Tomorrow they want to check for any additional swelling.
I walk over and sit down next to him. Without thinking, I rub his back in gentle circles over the soft cotton of his T-shirt. “Wait here for a moment, okay?”
He nods without looking up.
When I turn the corner out of the guest room, my pulse quickens. I have an idea. I rummage through my drawers and pull out my one-piece bathing suit—the one with the built-in tummy reducer. Then I pause and think: Robert’s clothes. Still neatly packed in boxes, I never got around to donating or discarding them. Raine is a bit taller and more muscular, but he should fit in Robert’s bathing trunks. I locate the box in the second guest room closet and pull them out. I’ve set a new speed record. The whole adventure takes me less than five minutes.
Raine is still on the bed where I left him. I kneel down in front of him and take his hand. “To make this more comfortable and keep our sense of modesty, I found you these.” I hand him the swim trunks and hold up my bathing suit. “This one is for me. Good?”
He gives me a half smile and nods.
“How about I help you down to your underwear, and then you take it from there while I change and come back?”
“Okay.” He stands, and moves to remove his shirt. Mid-movement he groans and winces.
“Here, sit. Let me.”
He obeys, and I take the hem of his soft T-shirt in my hands and lift it slowly over his head to reveal the rippled contours of his torso. I try not to gasp at the angry purple welt on his ribs. After discarding the shirt on the bed, I tenderly pass my fingertips over his bruised ribs. His eyes lock on mine. I press, and he screams.
“Shit, Raine! Your ribs are broken.” How the hell did the hospital miss that?
“I know.”
Could this get any worse? I wonder.
“I’ll tape you up after we shower,” I say evenly. “Can you stand?”
He gets up, and I unbutton his jeans. I steady my fingers and carefully sneak them under the waistband and separate the denim from the cotton of his underwear, so when I shimmy them over his hips I won’t take his briefs with me.
He helps and then sits down. I lower his jeans to the ground and free his legs. They’re covered in soft, light blond hair. The swim trunks are in his hand.
“I’ll be right back. Change while I’m gone?” I say, and then race back to my room and strip naked.
I wrestle my body into my bathing suit and return to him.
Raine is wearing the trunks when I walk in. He’s lying on his side, curled up in a fetal position on the bed. I pass by into the bathroom and turn on the hot water. This guest room has the most generous shower, a walk-in with multiple heads.
When I return, Raine’s eyes are closed. I brush back a clump of his matted hair. “Hey, are you still awake? You still want that shower?”
“Yes,” he murmurs and grimaces when he tries to sit up. He clutches his head with his hand, and manages to get upright. Taking him by the arm, I gently lead him into the bathroom and underneath the warm water in the shower.
I wet my hair and push it back out of my way then position him under the spray. “Can I wash your hair for you?” He bites his lip and nods. His vulnerability breaks my heart. “Let’s rinse the blood out first.”
He turns his back to me and tips his head back. The warm water cascades through his hair turning it from tawny-blond to brown. Gently, I guide the water from his roots to his ends to get rid of the dried red reminder of his beating, careful not to put too much pressure on his skull and the tender lumps and stitches I feel under my fingers.
I squeeze shampoo into my hand then spread it through his hair, lightly rubbing it up into a rich lather. I focus on running the soap through his hair without spending too much time at the roots. “You can rinse now.”
The lather snakes down the hollow of his spine in a soapy river.
“Conditioner?”
He nods.
I spread a small dollop through his hair, and rinse. With that done, I turn my attention to his body. Soaping up a pouf with shower gel, I start at his shoulders and work my way down the muscled landscape of his back until I reach the swim trunks.
Unprompted, he turns and I wash his arms and his chest, avoiding his purple ribs. Moving the pouf lower, I glide it over his sculpted abs down to his waistband and stop. To my artistic eye, even injured, I can’t help but appreciate every line, curve, and ripple that I touch. I’m having trouble imaging what could drive a father to break and batter his own son like this.
“Can you . . . ? Um, never mind.” I discard the idea of asking him to lift his leg. He’s unstable enough on his feet, no reason to endanger him further. Instead, slowly, I sink to my knees in front of him, draw in a breath, and hold it. My face falls in line with the healthy bulge hidden underneath the swim trunks. Warmth unrelated to the heated shower spray spreads across my cheeks. Lord, help me. Pushing away my discomfort at being this intimately close to him, I cast my eyes downward. Brownish-blue bruises and scraped skin cover both kneecaps. His injuries tug at my heart. Carefully, I run the soapy ball over one well-defined leg and then the other.
Something close to relief fills me as I rise.
Switching to a face cloth, I take the corner and gently dab the ugly bruises on his face and the cut on his lip. He takes my hand as I finish, and brings it to his lips. I suck in a breath.
“Thank you,” he says as his lips graze my knuckles.
“Can you finish from here?” I whisper.
“I think so.” He swallows. “Will you . . . ?”
“Just tell me what you need.” My voice is soft and encouraging despite the sudden rigidity of my spine.
He hooks his thumb inside the elastic waistband of the swim trunks. “Will you help me take these off? You don’t have to look.”
Oh, Sweet Jesus. “Sure, take this.” I hand him the pouf and step behind him. Better getting an accidental eyeful of backside than . . .
Sinking to my knees, I stare at the tile and reach up to find the thick elastic band by touch. He helps me glide them down over his hips, and I take it from there. My fingers gently graze over the soft hair on his legs as I work them down to the shower floor.
“Thanks,” he says, stepping out of them.
Keeping my eyes averted, I place the trunks in the back corner of the shower and step out of the steamy water. My heart rate slows as I hit the cooler air of the bathroom. Grabbing two towels on my way out, I wrap one around my wet bathing suit, and fashion the other into a turban around my head before heading for the door.
“Jillian?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you stay in here until I’m done? You know, just in case . . .”
“Okay.” I plant myself on top of the closed toilet seat. I want nothing more than to get the cold, wet spandex away from my body, but I’m more concerned about Raine. My comfort is a small price to pay for his safety.
His masculine form moves stiffly behind the curtain of steam clouding the shower glass. I hear him groan a couple of times over the sound of the pounding spray.
The water shuts off, and he peeks around the glass door. “Can you bring me my duffel bag? Please.”
“Sure.” I ease off the toilet seat and out the door. It’s sitting right where he left it on the side of the bed. I loop my hand through the handles and put it down outside the bathroom door. He peers out through the crack, and slides it inside. “Do you need my help?” I ask softly.
He hesitates before saying, “Thanks, but I can manage from here.” I can’t help but think he’s too embarrassed to ask, but decide not to push him.
“Will you be all right for five minutes while I change?” I ask as he closes the door.
He nods and the door shuts with a soft click.
I return in yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. He’s curled up on the duvet in pajama bottoms and a clean T-shirt with his damp hair fanned out on the pillow. He watches as I walk in. His black eye is taking on a yellowish hue.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
His head shakes imperceptibly, and his eyes close. For some reason, I can’t let him sleep uncovered. Retrieving a blanket from the closet, I place it on top of him then turn off all but one small light visible through the crack in the bathroom door.
Crouching down next to him, I whisper, “I’ll be back in an hour or so, just to make sure you wake up.”
“Okay.”
As I approach the threshold, his voice comes from behind me. “Jillian?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you stay with me?”
Thank God the darkness hides the surprise on my face. Warmth floods my chest. I can’t remember the last time I comforted anyone.
“Sure.” I set the alarm on the nightstand, and slide in behind him on the queen-size bed. Without hesitating, I snuggle into the hollow of his back and rest my hand on his hip, offering him my warmth. He smells fresh from the shower, the scent of my lavender shampoo clinging to his damp hair.
He takes my hand, twines his fingers into mine, and pulls my arm more tightly around him until my hand rests next on his stomach. His gesture ignites both my desire and my need to protect him.
“’Night, Jillian,” he whispers, and drops off to sleep. He breathes in a steady rhythm, and after my heart quells, I soon follow.