Chapter 8 #3
Grace can’t help the little smile that tugs at her lips. “He seemed pretty pissed, too. Think he’s become a little protective of Waylon.”
Crew huffs. “That right?”
Grace shrugs, still smiling. “Sure seemed like it.”
Then there’s another lull, quiet and deeper now that there’s more space between them.
Grace tries again. “I’m gonna head back—”
“You missed your shower slot.”
It isn’t a question. Especially not with the way he does a quick once-over of her, assessing the way she’s still in the clothes she was wearing this morning at breakfast. Every insecurity she’s fended off since entering his home starts to rear its ugly head again, telling her she’s dirty, grimy, and unfit to be here.
“Yeah,” Grace replies quickly, an excuse and apology at the ready. “I’m sorry if I got anything on your couch or tracked—” She looks back to where she walked in, silently relieved when she doesn’t see any boot prints.
“You can use mine, if you want.”
Her head swivels around fast enough that she nearly gets whiplash. “What?”
That flash of amusement is back. It makes the tips of her ears turn hot. “Hot water’s probably done for at the bunkhouse by now,” he explains, looking at his watch. “I have my own tank.”
Of course he does.
A hot shower does sound like heaven, but she hesitates. It feels like pity, like charity granted to the forlorn cowgirl. And anyway, ranch hands take cold showers all the time, and she highly doubts he ever invites Forty over to use his personal water heater when he’s last on the rotation.
“That’s all right,” Grace says. “I don’t mind them cold.” It’s not a lie, but there’s hardly any conviction in her tone.
Crew gives her no quarter, only maintains that soul-penetrating stare that threatens to peel back all of her carefully placed, protective layers. “It’s just a shower, Grace.” There’s a gentleness to his urging. It’s soft at the edges. “Don’t overthink it.”
She glances down at her hands, wincing a little at the red dirt that’s collected under her fingernails.
No matter how many times she washes them throughout the day, they never seem to lose that rusty tint.
She sighs, then blinks up at him. “All right.” With a tight-lipped nod, she adds, “If you insist.”
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It’s actually sinful, how good the shower feels—so good that Grace wonders how Crew manages to spend any time not showering.
He even has a removable showerhead, which she takes full advantage of, along with an array of hair products ranging from high-end conditioner in a sleek black jar to something called clarifying shampoo, which, she’s horrified to see when she squirts some onto her palm, is a dark green color.
She doesn’t dillydally, but she also doesn’t rush—and a good five minutes is spent just standing under the showerhead.
The heat is turned up high enough that steam rises throughout the bathroom, and Grace’s skin is starting to turn pink, but she doesn’t care.
Her senses feel sharper, her mind more alert, like she’s cleansing more than just her body right now.
Eventually, sadly, she does shut the water off and climb out carefully, grabbing one of the giant fluffy white towels Crew left for her on the back of the door.
Wrapping it around her body, Grace can’t help the contented sigh that leaves her lips at the feel of it.
Plushy, soft, and warm. The relief of being clean, the joy running through her veins dampens a little when she looks toward the pile of clothes on the floor.
Caked in dirt and smelling of horse—she doesn’t want to put them back on.
But because it’s either throwing something on or emerging from the bathroom in only a towel, she makes do.
In lieu of putting back on all her clothes, she slips on the sports bra and spandex shorts she was wearing beneath.
They’re modest—she never chooses fashion over comfort when she’s working.
The bra practically glues her breasts to her chest, tamping them down until they’re secure and out of her way, and the shorts, well—chafing is never a stronger possibility than it is in the dead of a Texas summer, so they’re on the longer side.
The mirror is still completely opaque; even when she uses her T-shirt to wipe down a spot, it fogs back up almost immediately.
With a sigh, she scoops up the rest of her clothes, her boots and socks, and walks out of the bathroom.
A dull murmur of voices echoes from the living room.
She finds Crew lounging on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table.
Boone is curled up next to him with his head in his lap, peacefully dozing.
There’s a baseball game on television, and Crew looks mildly displeased with its current state.
He curses under his breath when a player strikes out, waving a dismissive hand at the TV.
Grace smiles softly at his exasperation, padding down the hallway until she’s just at the edge of his vision.
Another player steps up to the plate, twirling his bat around.
She doesn’t want to interrupt, but she also doesn’t want to stand here awkwardly until a commercial break, so she clears her throat and says, “I’m gonna head out. Thanks for the shower.”
The batter swings and hits the baseball with enough force to send it soaring high, far enough into the outfield that it has the potential to go all the way.
Crew doesn’t look at her, transfixed by the play at hand.
He replies distractedly, “No problem,” and continues watching the game.
It ends up being a home run—a grand slam, no less, and Crew jolts forward, his fist pumping so hard that Boone startles into a seated position, staring daggers at Crew for waking him up.
Crew comforts him by reaching out and swiping his hand over Boone’s muzzle, but he doesn’t accept it.
Instead, he walks to the opposite side of the couch, plops down, and then lets out a long, dramatic sigh.
Grace passes the couch on her way out the door, and Crew meets her eyes as she goes, finally pulling his attention away from the game. Something happens then—something that has Grace slowing her steps just slightly.
Crew’s eyes lock with hers for a heartbeat, and then he seems to notice she’s not wearing the dingy clothing she walked into his house with.
Slowly, his gaze travels down her body. He takes his fill of her, unapologetic save for the visible swallow that moves his throat.
When his gaze meets hers again, after what feels like whole minutes, there’s a darkness in them that wasn’t there before.
He seems to remember himself quickly, and then he’s standing and walking over to her with purposeful steps.
For a half second, Grace isn’t sure what he’s about to do.
That look in his eyes—it’s unpredictable and enticing and terrifying all at once.
But he asks, simply, “Can I give you a ride back?”
Grace shakes her head. Her eyes trail back to the television, and she says, “Can’t have you miss the end of the game.”
Crew huffs with a half smile, then pads over to the door, which he holds open for her.
Grace stares out into the gaping maw of the night, and part of her wishes she didn’t have to go.
To leave behind the warmth of his house and the lingering scent of his aftershave to return to the coldness of her bunk.
But she does. She steps through the doorway, smiling up at him. “Thanks.”
He nods, that sort-of-smile spreading and carving out dimples in both of his cheeks. “Anytime. Seriously.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Grace says, wiggling her eyebrows.
Crew doesn’t return the silliness; his expression is sincere, almost imploring.
“I mean it. You deserve…” He trails off, letting himself take one more look at all of her.
He lets out a rough sigh and shakes his head, as if ridding himself of an errant thought.
He continues, but his voice is rougher, more restrained. “Your showers should always be hot.”
Grace’s stomach swoops at his words, but she does her best to not look affected. “Thank you,” she says once more, and then she leaves his porch, because she’ll be rooted to the spot if he keeps saying things like that. If he keeps looking at her like that.
Her strides are long, and she doesn’t check to see if he’s watching. She keeps her focus trained on the bunkhouse straight ahead, shrouded in night, set against a backdrop of stars.