Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Reeves
The Parasol: A decorated umbrella carried by the grand marshal, color moving through the gray of the procession long before the music changes.
The walk to Charli’s house takes less than ten minutes. Benjy spends most of it narrating the state of my shirt like a sports commentator calling a game.
Thank goodness my phone and wallet were on the table, so they survived the paint's wrath.
“You missed a spot on your arm.”
“Yep. Looks like I missed a lot of spots.”
Charli walks beside us, quiet but smiling to herself every time Benjy points out another streak of paint.
By the time we reach the house, the paint on my shirt has started to dry. The fabric sticks to my skin every time I move my shoulders.
I step up onto the back porch behind them, but Charli reaches out and lightly touches my arm before I can follow them inside.
The contact is brief, but it might as well have lasted all day. Her fingers press through the damp fabric, warm against skin that hasn’t quite cooled from the walk.
“Wait right here for a second. I've got an idea.”
She looks down at my shirt and then back up at me, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“Yeah. I don't want to get this in your house.”
Charli gestures toward the side yard. “Come on. I’ve got an outdoor shower.”
She walks ahead of me along the narrow path beside the house. The bamboo enclosure comes into view around the corner. It's simple and practical, the kind of setup every beach house seems to have.
She pushes the small gate open and steps aside so I can see inside.
“There’s soap and shampoo on the shelf,” Charli says, pointing toward a wooden ledge mounted on the wall. “The hot water takes a second, but it works.”
I nod. “This is perfect.”
Charli glances at my shirt again, then back at the hose coiled nearby.
“Just leave your shirt and shorts on the ground outside of here when you’re in the shower,” she says. “I’ll grab them and hose the paint out before it sets.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” Charli says easily. “Paint comes out better if you catch it early.”
She turns the hot water on, and the shower sputters to life, then she steps back toward the path.
“I’ll be right around the corner,” she adds. “Just toss the clothes out when you’re ready. You can put your wallet and phone here.”
I set my things down on the small bench outside of the shower. Benjy’s voice carries from somewhere inside the house. “Mom! Where’s my helicopter book?”
Charli glances toward the back door and laughs softly.
“I’ll go find that before he tears the place apart. Just throw them out. I'll be right back.”
Then she leaves me there with the bamboo walls rattling lightly in the breeze.
I step into the enclosure and turn the knob. Cold water hits my shoulders, and I bite back a curse. The paint immediately starts running off in pale blue rivulets, pooling around my feet before slipping through the gaps in the wooden platform.
The cold tightens the muscles across my shoulder, and I roll it once out of habit. Bad idea. A dull ache shoots down my arm, reminding me the injury didn’t magically disappear overnight.
My shirt is already half glued to my skin from the paint drying in the sun. I grab the hem and try to peel it upward, but the fabric sticks stubbornly across my chest and shoulder.
I hear the back door close and then footsteps.
“Everything okay over there?” Charli calls from somewhere around the corner of the house.
“Yeah,” I say, working the shirt loose a few inches at a time. “Just wrestling with modern art.”
Getting it over my head takes longer than it should. My shoulder protests when I lift my arm too high, so I end up twisting sideways under the spray and dragging the sleeve down my arm instead.
The shirt finally comes free with a wet slap.
I aim over the bamboo wall and toss it out. A second later, I hear the hose kick on.
“That’s impressive,” Charli says from the other side. “You managed to paint the inside of the collar.”
“Talent,” I tell her.
I reach for my shorts next, working them down my legs and stepping out of them carefully so I don’t smear paint on the wood floor.
I drop them over the top of the wall. I really don't want her to bother with them, but she seems intent and it's easier to go along than to argue.
The water runs steadily over my shoulders while Charli blasts the paint out of my clothes on the other side of the wall. I tilt my head under the stream, letting it rinse the last of the paint from my hair.
Working out the remaining streaks from my forearms, I glance through the narrow gaps between the slats and catch glimpses of Charli around the corner of the house. Her sleeves are rolled to her elbows, the garden hose angled with focused precision as she works the paint out of the fabric.
The sight stops me cold.
She’s methodical but not rushed, turning the shirt inside out to check the seams before hitting it again. When she finishes, she wrings the shorts out with both hands, leaning into a stubborn patch near the pocket.
I keep watching, because she can't see me.
Water runs down my back while she works twenty feet away, completely absorbed. It shouldn’t be anything. Just a woman rinsing paint out of a shirt.
But it is.
My gaze drops without thinking.
That’s when I realize I’m standing here naked and my body has decided to weigh in on the situation. My dick is standing straight up.
Jesus.
I scrub a hand over my face and step deeper under the spray, turning the water colder.
It doesn't help.
She's twenty feet away, wringing paint out of my clothes, completely unaware that I'm standing here with nothing between us but bamboo slats and whatever is left of my self-control. Which, apparently, is considerably less than I thought.
I press my palm flat against the shower wall and breathe.
Six years. Multiple combat deployments. I have held it together under conditions that would break most men.
I cannot hold it together watching Charli Parsons do my laundry.
The cold water hits my shoulders, and I stay under it longer than necessary, until my body gets the message my brain has been sending. When I finally turn it off, the silence feels loud.
I tip my head back and stare at the sky through the gap at the top of the enclosure.
Get it together.
This is not the time to be noticing how she looks leaning over a garden hose. It’s also not the time to be reacting like a twenty-year-old who hasn’t seen a woman in six months.
I tip my head back under the stream and force my attention back to my arms.
"Don't worry about the clothes. They're nothing special. Probably ruined anyway."
"I've handled worse stains than paint over the years."
Her response comes easily, without looking up. She spreads the shirt flat on the cement and hits it with another burst of water.
"Raising Benjy has made me very good at removing paint, mud, grass, juice, and playground grime from clothing."
The words are simple and probably routine for a mom of a young boy, but they carry weight. Five years of scraped knees and spilled drinks and messy dinners. Five years of daily life unfolding without me.
My body tightens, but not from the cold water.
She wrings out both pieces and steps back to examine her work.
"I'll run them through the washer and dryer. The whole process won't take long if you don't mind waiting. You can't drive with them soaking wet, anyway."
"I'm in no rush."
The words come out before I think them through. Charli glances toward the bamboo wall, though she can't see me through it.
"Earlier, you mentioned needing to stop by the docks to see Ridge."
"Yeah, if I don't make it out there today, it won't be the end of the world. I'll just let him know."
Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Just present.
But I know what I'm doing. I'm choosing to stay longer, not to run toward the nearest excuse to leave. The realization sucker punches me in the gut.
"Alright then. I'm going to go put these in the wash."
Her footsteps move toward the back door. I hear it open and close, then open again.
"I'm leaving clean clothes for you on the bench outside the shower. Towel's on top."
Clean clothes. Of course she has men's clothes lying around. But then I remind myself that it’s none of my business.
My jaw tightens anyway.
"Thanks."
I turn off the water and step out onto the wooden platform. The late afternoon air is warm against my wet skin.
Through the kitchen window, I can see what looks like a half-finished Lego model. Benjy must be working on building a set, but he's nowhere to be found.
The clothes by the shower are simple. There's a pair of faded basketball shorts and a gray t-shirt that's been washed soft. They smell like fabric softener and her perfume. Something like her.
I pull on the shorts first. They fit well enough, though they're shorter in the legs than I usually wear.
The T-shirt pulls tight across my shoulders, and I stand there for a second longer than I need to, my hands still at the hem.
I let go of the fabric and walk around the corner.
Time to face whatever comes next. I'm stuck here whether I want to be or not, since my clothes are in her washing machine.
I step around the corner and find Charli rinsing soap from my clothes in a utility sink attached to the back of the house. She looks up when she hears my footsteps.
"Better?"
"Much. Thanks for saving the day. That was insane."
"You saved the day. I have a feeling if you hadn't grabbed Benjy when you did, he could have been dealing with more than just paint on his clothes. Thank you for doing that."
"It wasn't even a thought. I'm glad I saw it happening in slow motion."
She nods toward the washing machine beside the sink.
"Where's Benjy?"
She glances toward the far side of the yard and points past a large oak tree.
"Up there."