Chapter 9 #2
“Same result.” I grabbed his arm. “Come on. You need to rinse them out properly.”
“Claudette—”
“Bathroom. Now.” I pulled him toward the hallway. “Don’t argue with me. You ran out here to save me from my cooking disaster. The least I can do is make sure you don’t go blind from shampoo.”
He let me lead him back to the bathroom, which was still thick with steam. The shower was still running, water streaming down the glass doors.
“Get in,” I said. “Rinse your eyes.”
“I can do it myself—”
“Michael, you can barely see. Just—” I reached for the shower door, pulled it open. Steam billowed out. “Get under the water.”
He hesitated for just a second, then stepped into the shower.
With the towel still on.
I almost laughed. “You’re going to get that wet.”
“Better than the alternative.” His voice was strained as he tilted his head back under the spray, rubbing at his eyes.
I stood there watching him, trying very hard not to notice how the water made the towel cling to him. How it was already starting to slip.
“Better?” I asked after a minute.
“Getting there.” He kept his head under the water, both hands pressed to his face. “This is humiliating.”
“It’s karma. For all the times you’ve taken care of me.”
“I don’t remember any of those times involving you half-naked in my shower.”
“Fair point.”
He finally straightened up, blinking water from his eyes. Turned to look at me. And something in the air shifted.
He was soaking wet, water streaming down his body. I was standing just outside the shower, close enough that steam was making my shirt stick to my skin.
Close enough to notice he was staring at me the same way I’d been staring at him.
“You should go,” he said. His voice had gone low. Gravelly.
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t leave right now, I’m going to do something we’ll both lose our minds over.”
“Like what?”
“Claudette.” My name came out almost like a warning. “Go.”
“But your eyes—”
“Are fine now. Go.”
I should’ve listened. Should’ve turned around and walked out and given him his privacy.
Instead I took a step closer. Right to the edge of the shower. Close enough that water was misting my face.
“What if I don’t want to go?”
His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Then you’re playing a very dangerous game.”
“Maybe I like danger.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Something hot and hungry and barely controlled.
He moved before I could blink. One second he was in the shower, the next he was right there, water dripping everywhere, backing me up against the bathroom counter.
His hands came up to bracket me in, palms flat on the counter on either side of my hips. Caging me in. His face was inches from mine.
“You let me walk out of the shower half-blind,” he said quietly. His voice was deep. Dangerous. “Made me stumble around soaking wet. All because you set something on fire.”
“It was an accident—”
“I know.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “But I’m feeling a little vengeful right now.”
“Vengeful how?”
Instead of answering, he kissed me.
Finally.
His mouth was soft and warm and devastatingly sure, and I melted into him without thinking. My hands came up to his chest—wet and solid and warm under my palms—and he made a sound low in his throat that I felt everywhere.
His hands slid from the counter to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and oh god, we were completely pressed together now, nothing between us but my clothes and that towel that was definitely going to fall off if this continued.
I kissed him back with everything I had. All the wanting from the past week, the frustration of slow, all the need I’d been trying to ignore.
His mouth trailed to my jaw, then my neck, pulling a gasp out of me before I could stop it. His stubble scratched my skin in the best way and I arched into him without meaning to.
“Michael—”
“Shh.” His mouth was at my ear now. “You taste like you’ve been waiting for this.”
“I have been,” I admitted breathlessly.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and the way he was looking at me made my stomach flip.
Then he stepped back—abruptly, like he’d yanked himself out of a fire.
“You need to leave,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Because—” He stopped. Took a breath that sounded like it hurt. “Just leave, Claudette.”
I stared at him, completely confused. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “You did everything right. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Leave. Please.”
Something in his voice made me actually look at him. At the tension in his shoulders, the way he was standing, slightly turned away from me. At the towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
Oh.
Oh.
Understanding hit me like a shooting star and my face went nuclear.
“Oh my god.” I covered my face with my hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I should’ve left when you told me to—”
“Claudette.”
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving right now.” I was already backing toward the door. “Sorry. So sorry. I’ll just—”
I fled.
Practically ran out of the bathroom and down the hallway to my room. Closed the door and leaned against it, my pulse still sprinting like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the danger was over, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.
I’d kissed Michael.
Michael had kissed me back.
And then I’d accidentally… caused a situation neither of us was prepared for. I pressed my hands to my burning face and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
That evening Michael found me on the balcony watching the sun set over the city.
“You’ve been hiding out here for an hour,” he said, leaning against the railing beside me.
“I’m not hiding. I’m contemplating.”
“Contemplating what? How to set more things on fire?” He looked at me with a boyish grin that seemed so different from his normal smirk. I liked it.
I smacked his arm. “That was one time. And you survived.”
“Barely.” But he was still grinning. “I have something to ask.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Probably.” He turned to face me properly. “I want to take you somewhere tomorrow night.”
“Where?”
“There’s a carnival.” He said it casually, but the way he avoided my eyes gave him away. I could see the nervousness in the way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. “The whole cliché experience.”
I studied him, my brows furrowing. “You’re acting like this is our first date.”
Something flickered across his face. “It’s not.”
“Then what was our first date?” I didn’t realize how much I wanted to know about it, until now.
He was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I’d stepped into territory he didn’t want to discuss. Then his mouth curved into something between a smile and a smirk.
“You threw up.”
I stared at him. “I did what?”
“Threw up. All over the parking lot of this Italian restaurant I’d spent two weeks researching.
” He was fully grinning now. “You insisted you were fine. That you wanted to try the ride I’d been talking about.
I told you it was a bad idea right after eating, but you were determined to prove you had a strong stomach. ”
“Oh my god.” I was absolutely horrified.
He laughed at the memory. “I found you in the parking lot looking absolutely mortified. You were convinced I’d never want to see you again.”
My face was burning. “What did you do?”
“Bought you ginger ale. Held your hair and took you home.” His expression softened. “Then I texted you the next morning asking when you wanted to try again.”
“And I said yes?”
“You said yes.” His thumb traced across my knuckles. “So tomorrow isn’t our first date. Well, technically, it’s our first date since we got married. I want us to do it. Without the vomiting this time, preferably.” He grimaced.
I was still processing the mortification. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so—wait.” I looked at him more closely. His mouth was twitching. “Are you lying to me?”
His face split into the biggest grin I’d ever seen—pure trouble and zero remorse.
“MICHAEL!”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He was laughing now, full-on laughing. “I was just teasing you.”
“I almost believed it! I was ready to never eat Italian food again!”
“Your face though.” He wiped at his eyes. “You looked absolutely horrified. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
“You’re terrible.” I smacked his chest but I was fighting a smile. “I can’t believe you made up a whole story about me vomiting. That’s so mean.”
“In my defense, you have no way to verify whether it’s true or not.” He caught my hand before I could hit him again. “I deserve the right to make fun of you a little for forgetting our first date.”
“By inventing a humiliating story?”
“It’s character building.”
“For who?”
“For me. Builds my character to see you get all flustered.” He leaned in quick and pecked my cheek. “Seven o’clock tomorrow, Mrs. Ashford. Don’t be late.”
“We live together. How would I be late?”
“You’ll find a way. You’re creative like that.“
That night I couldn’t sleep.
I lay there thinking about the kiss in the bathroom.
The way he looked at me sometimes like I was the only thing worth looking at.
This should feel overwhelming. Should feel too fast and too much.
Instead it just felt right.
I hadn’t been excited about anything in longer than I could remember. And that thought made something whisper in the back of my mind—that I couldn’t remember much at all actually, that there was a whole year missing—but I pushed it away.
Tomorrow Michael was taking me on a date. We’d create new memories that had nothing to do with the ones I’d lost.
We’d fall in love again.
I reached for the pills on my nightstand—the ones Michael left every night —and swallowed them.
Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.