She took several seconds to get her thoughts together. “I care about Lizzy and Mama and Granny. I don’t care if you are telling me pretty words that you’ve told lots of women before me. I don’t care about your past. I’ll burn those bridges for you if you’ll hand me a stick of firewood and a match.”
How he managed to stand up in a slippery, wet tub with her in his arms, then step out without falling, was a miracle. But suddenly, she found herself wrapped in that brand-new robe he’d talked about and her hand was in his, letting him lead her to the living room. He tossed a quilt over the sofa and motioned for her to sit. She obeyed without arguing and he carefully brought the ends of the quilt up around her legs.
“Don’t go away.” He smiled.
Leaving wet footprints on the floor and dripping water as he disappeared into his bedroom, he whistled a tune that she recognized as “Honey Bee” by Blake Shelton. In a few minutes he returned, dressed in gray sweat bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. He carried a towel in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.
“Slide forward about a foot,” he said.
When she did, he settled in behind her, one long muscular leg on each side of her body. He towel-dried her hair and then massaged her scalp with his fingertips. Holy smoking shit! Her body felt like a rag doll and yet every nerve was on high alert, wanting more, begging for his wonderful hands.
“Mmmm,” she murmured.
“Is it making it better?” he drawled.
He started brushing her hair and a whole new set of emotions surfaced. She was afraid to move an inch for fear she’d find out this was all a dream and she would wake up with that grinding hangover, or worse yet, in her lonely bed at home.
His hands grazed her cheeks as he pulled her damp hair back to run the brush through it. Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the side of her neck.
“We were going to talk,” she whispered.
“We are talkin’, darlin’. We’ll use words when necessary,” he said softly.
No one had ever cared enough about Allie to sit in a tub with her when she was crying or brush her hair, much less talk to her without using words. Sitting there with her eyes shut, feeling Blake’s long legs against her body and what had to be an erection pressing against her back, she couldn’t help but wonder if the third time was the charm. First there was Granny’s Walter. Then there was Katy’s Ray. And now there was Blake, who was the third. If it was a real fairy tale, the prince would come along and win the princess.
“Now that’s as far-fetched as anything can be,” she murmured to herself.
“What?” he asked.
She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Did I say that out loud?”
“You did. Want to explain?” he asked.
She shook her head and leaned back so she could look up into his eyes. “Do you have your contacts in place?”
“No, ma’am, and I’m blind without them or my glasses so my hands are seeing for me this morning. They tell me that you are beautiful beyond words.” He smiled.
“And when do you wear glasses? After a Friday night of bar hopping?”
He reached behind him to the end table and put his glasses on. “Or on a nice rainy day so I can see you better. I don’t like them but they come in handy when my allergies act up.”
“I like them on you. They make your eyes even greener.”
“Then I’ll throw away my contacts and wear them every day just for you,” Blake said sincerely.
In all the fairy tales she’d read or that Granny had read to her in her youth, the prince had never worn glasses or been nearsighted. This had to be reality.
“You don’t have to do that, Blake. Do you always believe what your hands say?” she teased.
“Not always but my heart never lies to me and it’s in agreement with my hands,” he whispered.
“Oh!”
He stopped and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry. Did I hit a tangle?”
“No, I should call Mama and Lizzy. It’s a wonder they haven’t called out the militia already,” she said.
He pulled the brush to the end of her dark hair and then laid it on the end table. “I talked to Lizzy last night and your mother this morning. They know where you are, that you are alive, and that I’ll bring you home sometime later.”
“I can drive myself home. I drove over here drunk, so I reckon I can get back when I’m sober,” she said.
“Not in that truck out there with the front end caved in. You’re lucky that you didn’t hurt yourself, but then God protects drunks and fools,” he said with a chuckle.
She crawled off the sofa and pulled the robe tightly across her bare breasts. “I was hoping that part was a dream. Did I really wreck my truck?”
“You did, darlin’,” he answered. “Look out the window. Is that the one you bought when you were sixteen?”
When she peeked through the blinds, she expected another burst of tears. She’d saved money from working with her dad to buy that truck and now it was totaled. Sure, she could probably find used parts and have someone fix the thing, but was it worth it? Was this an omen that she should let go of all the past?