Chapter 20 #2
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled sheepishly, tugging at his heart with love similar to the feeling she evoked their last morning on Liberation.
“Let me get your flip-flops.” He slid them out from under the bed and fit them on her feet.
She moved slowly, shakily, and every instinct screamed to pick her up and carry her. But she waved him off until she almost stumbled. He scooped her up in his arms.
In the bathroom, he lowered her onto the closed toilet seat, and she sighed. “Thank you.”
He shifted his weight, his hand hovering near her but not quite touching. His gaze flicked between her face and her shirt. “Do you, uh, need help with that?”
“I’ll try.”
He stepped out to give her privacy and waited by the door until she called him back. Her good arm covered her chest with the T-shirt. “I… the bra.”
Her vulnerability sent a pang through him. Stepping behind her, he focused on her injured arm. His hands shook as he unhooked the bra and his fingers traced across her skin. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay.” Her breath hitched, imitating how he felt. Why was the second clasp stuck now?
The room was silent except for their uneven breathing, each exhale mingling in the lavender-scented air.
His mind raced with thoughts he couldn’t quite contain.
He’d seen women in swimsuits before and been surrounded by actresses and models on sets, but this was different.
Claire wasn’t just any woman. She was his wife.
He drew out a breath when the last clasp fell free. She didn’t move, and his knuckles grazed her skin a tad longer. At the soft warmth of her back, heat rushed through him. Claire trembled. Right. She was sick, probably cold now.
Time to remember how he survived in his career. Love was a choice, and while he liked her, he was here to help her through the bath rather than gawk. “Can you trust me to help you through this?”
Her eyes locked on his, longing shone in her gaze. She nodded. “Can you help me tie my hair?”
She told him where the hair ties were, and he focused as he gathered her hair into a ponytail.
Somehow, he managed to stay grounded, helping her scrub her arms and shoulders when her hand faltered, adding soap to the washcloth when she asked. But every touch, every glance, became a test of his self-control.
By the time she was clean and ready to get out, his heart had to be moments away from giving out. “I have some oil for your back.” He strained the words out after drying her back.
“Okay.” With minimal help from him, she slid on her bottoms, then settled on the covered toilet.
His pulse thundered as he dolloped oil into his palm and warmed it between his hands.
He sucked in a breath, then glided his palms over her shoulder blades in slow, deliberate movements.
Her skin was supple, her muscles tense beneath his fingers.
He worked carefully, his thumbs tracing the curve of her spine.
She was still, perhaps comfortable? He’d never done this before. Was he doing it right?
“You okay?” His hushed voice barely broke the stillness.
Her head tilted forward, a sigh escaping her lips, and his throat tightened. His hands moved lower, spreading the oil evenly. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. As much as his hands ached to linger on her skin, he had to pull away. This closeness was unraveling his composure.
“Done.” He exhaled, the steamy room feeling three times hotter.
“Thanks.”
He helped her slip into the pajama shirt, the cotton soft on his fingertips as he slid one button into a hole at a time, and avoided her gaze when his fingers brushed her collarbone.
After carrying her back to bed, he left the room, slumped against the hallway wall, and gulped for air as if he hadn’t breathed in a month.
He ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath. You survived.
True. But the tension in his chest hadn’t eased.
For the first time since their arrangement began, this all felt too real. Claire wasn’t just his “fake” wife anymore. She was his—and the thought thrilled and terrified him.
He stretched out on the sofa several minutes later after his bedtime tea.
His feet dangled over the armrest. At least he had his own pillow and familiar throw draped over him.
He liked lying beside Claire last night.
But no way would he sleep while distracted by her scent and nearness.
Yes, he’d thought he had plenty of self-control, but man, something about inhaling her scent held him captive.
Again, nothing would happen, not with John and Bella within earshot, so that was a comfort.
For now, he savored the scent of home—the faint mix of cedar and Mom’s detergent, a subtle hint of Mom’s jasmine, and a tinge of Dad’s famous breakfast, which they burnt at times.
He almost smiled, but then he saw Claire.
Her smile, her eyes with longing whenever she looked at him.
Of course, at times, he must look at her with the same longing.
Good grief. He rolled to the side, replaying the day and, more vividly, the moments with Claire. The memory of her leaning on him, her skin still too warm beneath his fingers, and her breath hitching when he’d helped her undress—it all clung to him like a second skin.
You’re only human.
He flipped onto his back again. The baby monitor crackled on the coffee table beside him, Claire’s rhythmic breathing, and John’s distant snores added a layer of white noise.
Bella’s breaths were restless not far from him. Soon, her whimper, followed by a louder cry, tugged him out of his restless haze. He sat up and rubbed a hand down his face. Yawning, he moved toward the Pack ’n Play.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He scooped her up. Her cries quieted as he cradled her, bouncing her in his arms. He walked her around the dimly lit house. The creak of the floorboards beneath his feet better not disturb Claire.
When walking around didn’t get Bella back to sleep, he pulled out his phone and scrolled a playlist of soothing tunes.
Bella’s cries softened but didn’t stop entirely, her tiny fingers tugged at his shirt as she whimpered.
A drive might have helped, but he couldn’t risk being gone if Claire woke up needing him.
By the time Bella finally drifted off, he was too wired to sleep.
Sunday mornings in Pleasant View usually meant church with his parents and his brother’s family, but today wasn’t a typical Sunday. Claire wasn’t well, and Wade couldn’t leave her home alone.
Fern took John to the church where his buddies went, leaving Wade to attempt virtual church, which ended up being a challenge while tending to Bella.
Claire hadn’t thrown up today, a small victory.
He coaxed her into drinking hot milk—a favorite memory from his childhood.
Regina had always made hot milk for him and his siblings when they were sick.
“Little by little, okay?” He sat on the edge of the bed as Claire sipped.
She nodded, her movements slow. “This tastes good.” She handed the mug back with a weak smile.
He set it on her nightstand. “That’s the point.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me.” If their roles were reversed, she’d do the same for him.
“Would you like some toast?”
Claire shook her head and slid back beneath the covers, her exhaustion palpable. Now that he had some spare pillows, she had one for her arm too. He adjusted the pillows to prop up her injured arm.
“Thank you.” Her eyes fluttered closed.
He leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead, and the gesture felt natural—right.
He lingered in the bedroom, love for her swelling in his chest as she relaxed further into the bed.
His stomach fluttered. He was falling in love with his wife, and he loved taking care of her. But could he go where this might lead?