Chapter 13
CURLY GIRL ROUTINE
LYDIA
Iglance at the kitchen sink, letting out an irritated groan. This is going to be an absolute pain in the ass, but I have to do it. My left hand twinges at the thought, but if I don’t wash my hair or do my curly routine now, my hair will be a frizzy mess for work tomorrow.
Heading over to the sink, I turn the faucet on. While I wait for it to warm up, I take my old ratty tee off, leaving me in my comfortable bralette. This thing has been a lifesaver in the last week, since my boobs have started getting super sore, along with a myriad of other pregnancy symptoms.
Throwing a towel over the side of the sink, I bend over the edge of the counter.
I douse my hair with water and pump a few squirts of shampoo into my hand.
It’s definitely uncomfortable trying to lather up the suds in my hair, and I can’t seem to get the left side scrubbed as well as I’d like with how sore my wrist is. This is not going to end well.
Grabbing the retractable faucet, I direct it over my hair, hoping my head is at least a little clean. I try to get the back of my head, but instead of it actually rinsing my hair, it sprays all down my back, making me shriek, and I proceed to smack my head on the metal faucet.
“Fuck!” I grip the top of my head with my good hand.
A familiar voice distracts me from the throbbing in my head. “Lydi?”
“Fletch?” I question, my dripping wet head still hanging over the sink. “What are you doing? You weren’t supposed to be home for like an hour.”
“Practice got done early.” His voice lilts at the end, like he’s trying his best to hold back his laughter.
Of fucking course, it did.
“Do you need help?” His footsteps grow closer until I can sense him standing right beside me.
God, I’m so embarrassed. I’m in only a bralette and cotton shorts, bent over the kitchen sink. I’m sure this was not the sight he expected to come home to.
“No, I’m good,” I say, hoping he doesn’t see through me.
“Whatever you say, Lydi-bug.” He sets something down on the kitchen table while I continue to attempt to rinse my hair.
I reach for the conditioner and can’t even open it because of my wrist, spewing out a few choice words as the bottle flies into the metal sink.
Fletcher steps beside me once more, this time, pushing back a piece of my wet hair. His fingers tilt my chin so my eyes lock with his. “Let me help. Please.”
The words are so soft as they leave his lips but said with so much sincerity that it makes my heart melt a little.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Fletcher steps back. My head is still at an angle with water dripping down my face, but I see it clear as day when he crosses his hands over his torso, gripping his white MBH shirt and lifting it over his head.
I have to do my best to attempt to swallow a gasp when his bare skin comes into view.
Oh.
The happy trail I saw when I put him to bed last week flashes into my line of sight again, and this time, the heat runs straight to my clit. Where did this attraction come from? I never used to react to him like this.
Fletcher returns to my side, and my cheeks burn as I turn my head back to face the silver metal of the sink bowl. I grab the tipped-over bottle of conditioner and hold it up for him.
He opens the bottle with ease, squirting the liquid into his palm and running his long fingers through my hair. His touch sends an unexpected shiver down my spine, making goose bumps erupt on my arms.
“You have to kinda squish it into my hair.” I use my good hand to demonstrate.
He hums an acknowledgment before continuing the motion all around my head. His warm body is pressed up against mine, our bare skin meeting, and my skin grows sensitive to his touch. The sensation spreads throughout my body until my already sensitive nipples are hard.
After he’s squished the conditioner in my hair, Fletcher grabs the faucet, running it over my head and rinsing.
“Perfect,” he says, voice low and rumbly. “What’s next?”
“How did you know there was more?”
“You’ve got no less than four bottles of product lined up in the sink, Lydia.”
Right.
“I’ll squeeze a bit of the extra water out, but can you grab the curl cream? It’s the orange bottle. Put a good amount in your hands and rub them together.”
He does as directed, then stands. I demonstrate how to do praying hands and how to get the cream all over the curls. He does the next step with ease, and when I tell him to, he scrunches the curls again.
When he’s done, I grab the T-shirt that I use specifically for this and plop my hair.
I stand back straight, glancing around at the absolute mess we made.
The countertops are covered in water, and there’s even some on the floor.
I have a feeling most of it was my fault when I was doing it on my own, but still.
“Oops.” I grimace, glancing down at myself. I’m still only wearing a bralette and my high-waisted sleep shorts. “Oh god.” I cross my arms over my chest, wincing at the pain from the pressure on my breasts.
My tits better not hurt like this the whole pregnancy.
Fletcher clears his throat and smiles at me with so much endearment, I want to cry. There’s a crinkle in the corner of his eyes. It’s so sweet. He’s so sweet. He didn’t have to take time out of his day to help me wash my hair, but he did.
Whoever he ends up with will be so lucky to have him. He would be such a great partner. So willing to jump in and help, no matter what.
But why does the thought of him with someone else sting? I shake it off. Why am I thinking about Fletcher like that? Why am I reacting to him like this?
“I’m going to finish this—” I gesture dramatically to my head. “I’ll be back.”
I rush down the hall to my bathroom, starting up my blow dryer to diffuse my hair. When it’s done and actually looks fairly good, I cross over to my room to put on a dry bra and shirt.
I head back into the living room, finding Fletcher sitting on the couch. He looks up at me when I enter, and a giddy smile crosses his face.
“I did pretty good,” he says.
“You really did.” I fluff my hair with my hand as I flop down onto the couch. “What are you up to the rest of the day?”
“Nothing.” He pulls my feet into his lap and rubs them.
“That feels amazing,” I moan, my head dropping to the couch cushion.
Fletcher adjusts in his seat, digging his thumb into the arch of my foot. “Can I help you with anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“With the pregnancy. I mean, I hate that I couldn’t be there to support you when you told Jude, but I want to be here for you, every step of the way. I’m here for you.”
I can hear just how much he means it in every word he says.
“Oh,” I whisper, my heart pounding. “I don’t know. I mean, I should get used to doing this on my own. Right?” I chuckle awkwardly.
“You’re not alone, though.”
“I know. But I am, I mean, I’m going to be a single mom.”
His brows knit together, and he slowly nods. “I guess.”
“I won’t say no to your help.” I rest my palm on his forearm, and when my hand connects with his skin, that sensation I had earlier rushes back to life, and it throws me off. I pull my hand away. “But I’m okay. Really.”
Fletcher nods, the conversation dies, and I can’t help but feel some sort of tension in the air.
I don’t know what these feelings are, but I’m not sure I can brush them off as pregnancy hormones.