Chapter 29 Lucy
Lucy
The rash has spread.
And it itches worse than it did. Like, full-body, “can’t stop squirming,” “this is a nightmare” itching.
I blink against the soft morning light filtering through Harris’s bedroom window, disoriented for a second because it’s still so early.
His bed.
His sheets.
The vintage headboard. I had absolutely no trouble falling asleep last night, after lying on my stomach at the foot of his bed, watching him throw the last of his things into a suitcase.
We snuggled on the couch after that.
Took a hot shower.
Climbed into bed and passed out.
The fresh mountain air will do that to a person . . .
I scratch at my arm—then my thigh—then the back of my knee, huffing out my frustration.
Beside me, there’s a rustling of sheets. He better be awake.
“Please tell me you’re scratching too,” I mutter, clawing at my ankle like a lunatic. “I want to scratch my skin off.”
Harris moans from his pillow. “I didn’t want to say anything, but yes. I think my ass is on fire.”
I turn my head to see him dragging his foot up and down the mattress, trying to get relief without using his hands. It’s both ridiculous and endearing—and erotic, because we’re both completely naked.
And covered in poison ivy.
“Oh no,” I say, smothering a laugh. “You’ve got it too.” I roll toward him, tugging the sheets around me. “Do you think there’s any calamine lotion here? Or, say—an entire tub of hydrocortisone?”
“Bathroom cabinet,” he says. “I’m going first.”
He bolts out of bed, scratching his abs on the way, another hand on his butt cheek, itching.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to actually claw one’s skin off and if I would, at this point, welcome the relief.
My entire body is on fire.
Every inch of me—from the delicate arch of my foot to places I really shouldn’t admit out loud (vagina, cough cough)—is consumed by an inferno of itch!
I whimper louder. Impromptu forest sex was supposed to be romantic! Woodsy! Sexy!
Instead, I’m a human petri dish with welts in places no welts should exist.
I hear Harris’s expletive from the bathroom. A thud. More curses. The medicine cabinet doors opening and slamming.
“Are you okay in there?” I call weakly, nails biting into my elbow for relief.
“I hate this!” he complains. “It itches so fucking bad!”
Tell me about it.
More banging, followed by “How am I supposed to sit on a plane like this?”
Don’t know. Don’t care.
I have problems of my own!
My butt itches. My stomach itches. My rib cage itches. What fresh hell is this?
Glancing at the nightstand, I grapple for my phone. I reach for it, unlock it, and google: Can you die from poison ivy?
The search results are not comforting.
Harris returns, his hot, naked body half covered in pink splotches of calamine lotion; he looks like a walking strawberry milkshake.
“Your turn,” he says solemnly, tossing the bottle onto the bed. I grab the bottle and give it a shake to activate the ingredients.
Harris raises his eyebrows. “Need help?”
I blink at him. “Help with what?”
He grins, bending down to swipe his boxer shorts from the floor. “Rubbing it over your tits.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling and snort. “I am not asking you to rub lotion on my boobs.”
He grins wickedly. “But I’m volunteering as tribute!”
“So? I’m too itchy to let you touch me—even if the sight of you makes me horny.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling on his underwear. “Why Lucy—that’s the most romantic thing a woman has ever said to me.”
I laugh, pop open the bottle, and apply it liberally to my right arm, rubbing the thin lotion into my elbow and down my forearm. I groan, trying to twist and reach that impossible spot between my shoulder blades.
Harris watches me struggle for a beat, then holds out his hand. “Please tag me in, Coach. I’ll behave.”
I hesitate. Behave? He’s not capable.
He wiggles his fingers. Gimme. “I promise to be professional. No funny business.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re incapable of no funny business.”
He grins. “Valid point. But also—itchy emergencies call for teamwork.”
I hand him the bottle with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You may apply lotion—but only because I can’t reach.”
He stands next to the bed, turning me so he has access to my entire back, then twists the cap off the pink bottle with an exaggerated motion. Gently runs his cool palms over my back. “Sorry this is cold.”
“It’s fine.” It feels amazing. I nearly melt because it’s already soothing my skin. “Marry me.”
“So easy to win you over.” He nuzzles my ear. “Ask me again twelve months from now.”
I roll my eyes. “Never will I ever propose to a man.”
Harris laughs, the sound warming my tummy from the inside out. I rest my chin on my arms as he smooths lotion along my spine. His touch is gentle, almost reverent—and if I weren’t so miserably itchy, I may indeed be swooning.
When he finishes smoothing the last bit of lotion along my back, I expect him to let me flop forward in my misery—but instead, he hooks his arms around my waist and hauls me right into his lap.
I let out a surprised squeal, legs draped over his thighs. He tucks my head under his chin.
“I cannot wait,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “For Friday.”
Friday is Arizona. Friday is his city, his friends, his house.
I will have to cancel classes, tell my parents I’ll be out of town, find someone to open and close the studio . . .
I didn’t consider any of these things when I agreed to go. I inhale a breath, reminding myself not to panic.
I can do this.
But Harris feels the tension in my body and pulls back to tilt my chin up. “Hey.”
I meet his gaze, my stomach doing somersaults.
“It’s going to be fun.”
I nod. “What are we going to do?”
“I was thinking we could do an off-roading Jeep tour, and possibly go to the—”
“Oh my God, no. No Jeep tour.” I hold out my arms, which are chalky from all the calamine lotion. “Have we learned nothing about your ideas for adventure? You practically broke your ribs scaling my wall, now we’re covered in rashes because you wanted to hunt down a creature that doesn’t exist.”
He goes quiet, deflating like a sad balloon.
I nudge him gently. “I mean, you have a knack for chaos.”
He thinks several seconds. “What if we take a hot-air balloon ride?”
Uh. No. “Do you have any idea how many balloons crash?” The statistics are mind boggling! Seriously! Google it!
“Oh!” He perks up again. “Indoor skydiving! You wear a jumpsuit. There’s a giant wind tunnel, and they have instructors. What could possibly go wrong?”
I give him a warning look. “Harris.”
“Fine,” he says, dejected. “We’ll go swimming in my pool.” He sounds so deflated that I laugh. “Mini golf?”
I grin. “I don’t hate that.”
He puffs out a breath of relief. “And maybe after golf, we eat tacos the size of our faces?”
“Sold!” I shout to the ceiling because who doesn’t love tacos the size of their faces?
“Margaritas that come in buckets?”
I kiss his jawline. “You are redeeming yourself so, so quickly.”
“I wanted this trip to be amazing for you,” he murmurs.
I smile against his chest. “It will be because you’ll be with me.”
He kisses the top of my head, his breath warm against my scalp, lips lingering. “You’re kind of my favorite person, you know that?”
I look up at him, eyes sparkling. “Kind of?”
I can feel him grinning as he says, “Okay, definitely.”
My shoulder itches, but I resist the temptation to scratch it, content to be in his arms. I love that he’s holding me, this moment is so—
“What about riding a mechanical bull?” he interrupts.
I groan. “Stop.”