Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
rowan
Claire wastes no time in leading me to the pharmacist’s counter in the back. As soon as I turn in my prescription and insurance card, she grabs my hand and hauls me down the aisle housing the allergy medications.
“Dr. Jalen recommended one-percent strength. What do you think?” she asks, scanning the shelves for hydrocortisone cream.
“One percent sounds good.” I should probably offer more input, since I’m an actual doctor with my very own prescription pad and all, but I can’t seem to focus on anything with her palm pressed to mine.
It’s got to be the Benadryl fog, I reassure myself as an elderly man walks by. We trade polite nods before Claire lets go of my hand and bends to reach the bottom shelf. I panic when I imagine her hem riding up and instinctively step forward to block the old man’s view.
“Whatcha doin’ back there?” she asks as she slowly rises to her feet, sounding amused.
“Oh, um, I’m just …” My nostrils flare as I fight the urge to look down, but she turns her head so that her hazel eyes meet mine.
“Collecting your payment after that piggyback ride?” she asks, her dark lashes fanning her cheeks, and my palms hover near her hips.
Okay, it can’t just be the allergy meds, because this is the first time I’ve ever considered participating in an act of public indecency.
In fact, I have to ball my hands into fists to avoid gripping her possessively.
She cocks an eyebrow and arches her back slightly, and I gasp when she pushes into me, a plethora of obscene thoughts flooding my mind, many of which I’ve never even imagined were possible until this moment.
Half of my brain is screaming, Abort!
Unfortunately, it’s drowned out by the more persuasive half claiming, Mine.
“Rowan,” she whispers my name with a pained expression, and a low growl resonates from my chest. I relinquish my self-control and lean down to meet her lips when a loud throat clearing makes us both wince.
I jump back, scrunching my nose at the sound of more fabric ripping, and Claire spins around quickly, hiding her bare backside against the shelving.
The same gray-haired man from a minute ago chuckles to himself and walks on in the opposite direction just before a mother and a young boy pass by.
She shoots us a disapproving glare and hurries the kid along, and I let out a loud exhale once they clear the aisle, though I’m not sure whether I’m more disappointed or relieved by the interruption.
“I’m sorry,” I begin. “That was totally …”
Claire’s whimper distracts me as she inspects her tattered clothes again. The jacket’s hem must have caught on my belt buckle, causing the tear when we broke apart. And naturally, the seam that’s currently unravelling falls on the same side as the rip in her dress.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says just before another one of her loud cackles bubbles up from her chest, and I can’t help but join her.
We’re both delirious within seconds, laughing so loud that we lower ourselves to the floor to stop from falling over, triggering another wardrobe malfunction and a complementary fit of giggles.
“What are we going to do now?” I ask, gasping for air.
She sighs. “I guess I’ll be needing your drawers, now.”
“My what?”
“Your boxers,” she clarifies as if the answer should be more obvious. “You’re wearing underwear, aren’t you?”
I nod and blink back at her in confusion, my brain still misfiring.
“Who am I kidding? Of course you do,” she mumbles to herself as she shifts to show me the damage.
Between the jacket and the dress, she’s practically naked from the armpit down on one side, her dainty underwear notwithstanding.
“I’ll need something else to wear if I want to make it back to the hotel without literally freezing my ass off. ”
I frown, still staring at her bare hip. “Maybe we can flip the jacket around?”
“Nah, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t long enough to cover everything even before it ripped. My undercarriage was already catching a suspicious amount of cool breeze on the ride here.”
“But … but you can’t wear my underwear,” I argue awkwardly.
She stifles a smile. “Why not? Are you embarrassed to show me your tighty-whities?” Then she cups her hand around her mouth and adds, “You didn’t leave behind any evidence after your unfortunate tummy situation, did you?”
“They’re boxer briefs,” I reply more defensively. “And I’m pretty sure they’re relatively clean, considering. But you barely even know me.”
She shrugs. “I’ll keep my panties on underneath if it makes you feel better, but the fact that I was just privy to your entire medical history makes that a moot point. I’d know if you had any booty cooties by now, unless that’s why you turned down Nurse Ethel’s offer to run that STI panel.”
Another unexpected laugh escapes before I can help it. “Booty cooties?”
She smirks. “Crotch crickets, dirty deed receipts, freaky freebies? I imagine you’ve heard of sexually transmitted diseases in your line of work.”
“No cooties,” I confirm, ignoring the way my cheeks heat. “But my boxers are definitely going to be too big for you.”
“You know what they say about men who wear big undies, don’t you?” she replies, quirking an eyebrow. I roll my eyes and shake my head, and she continues. “I’ll make them work. Get to stripping.” She slaps me on the thigh and gestures to the restroom sign a few aisles down.
Reluctantly, I rise to my feet and shuffle off, leaving her snickering to herself on the floor before I duck into the men’s restroom to remove my underwear.
Maybe if I hurry, I won’t have time to wrap my mind around the idea of Claire’s soft, sexy curves being nestled within my underpants.
Tripping over my pants leg and nearly falling serves as a decent distraction from the improper thoughts, but only for a second.
The feeling of my dress slacks against my skin makes me cringe as I pull up on the zipper.
Claire was right before—easy breezy isn’t my style.
Plus, I could really use the extra layer of support in my current predicament.
Claire grins up at me when I return, and I take it she’s expecting me to carry her around again when I see her shoes resting on the floor beside her. Still, I can’t help smiling and blushing when I retrieve the boxer briefs from my pocket.
“My lady,” I say, holding out my offering and bowing.
She chortles as she takes the underwear, and I worry for a second that was too corny. “If this doesn’t entitle you to a kiss, I don’t know what will,” she muses as she slides her bare feet into the shorts.
“Wait, aren’t you going to change in the bathroom?” I whisper harshly when she rises to her feet, ignoring her flirty reply.
“What for? Everyone in this aisle has already seen my goodies by now,” she replies nonchalantly and drags the waistband up over her hips. She tugs at her dress, and I force myself to look away and take a moment to scratch at my neck again.
“All right. I’m piggyback ready,” she declares, modeling the shorts.
I pretend I’m too concerned with finding a pack of generic diphenhydramine to avoid glancing in her direction and risking my body’s reaction to the sight of her in my underwear.
“Um, would you mind if we applied some of that cream before we go, at least around my neck? I’m getting pretty uncomfortable. ”
“Yeah, sure,” she says distantly, taking a box from my hands and opening it up.
I nod gratefully before turning and crouching down, and she spreads some of the hydrocortisone cream over my skin.
In a small twist of good luck, she has to move the cord of my scapular off to the side before rubbing in the medicine, and it serves as both a distraction from her touch and a wake-up call for my conscience.
“Better take another dose of Benadryl while you’re at it,” she tells me as she opens up the bottle and hands me another shot of pink liquid.
Once we’re done, she gathers our things and hops into place on my back.
I wait for her to crack another joke or dig her heels into me as if I were a horse, but she’s quiet on the ride to retrieve the EpiPen prescription from the pharmacist and then to self-checkout.
I reach up, and she hands over the cream without a word.
She doesn’t even reply to my strained apology for brushing against her thighs in the process of digging my wallet out of my pocket, and when I glance up at the security camera, I find her looking disappointed.
“Anything else?” I venture before I complete our transaction, gesturing toward the candy shelf. She sees me watching her through the monitor and shakes her head.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she says with a soft smile. But it’s obvious I’ve done something to hurt her feelings in the last couple of minutes.
“Claire?”
“Hmm?”
I scoff, annoyed with the delay after trying to communicate through the screen, and turn to set her down on the small checkout counter. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head again, but the way she’s blinking back the moisture in her eyes gives her away.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I continue, leaning in closer and planting my hands on either side of her.
“I’m fine,” she repeats with a sniffle. “I’m just … silly.”
My brow furrows in concern, and I think I’d do anything to keep her from looking this sad ever again. “Tell me.”
She turns her eyes down. “I guess I thought you wanted …” Her shoulders rise and fall in a dejected shrug before she looks up and forces another fake smile. “Never mind.”
It takes another second for me to understand what she means. She’s upset because she gave me another opening a minute ago, and I blew right past it in the name of stifling my inappropriate thoughts.
I swallow hard. “You’re not silly.”
“Seriously? Look at me right now,” she says, gesturing over the current state of her outfit. Her smile grows more genuine as she continues. “I’m sitting here, dressed like a homeless person, boudering in the middle of the CVS because you don’t want …”