Note to self: only rescue ugly guys next time.
Ash was in the bathroom for so long that I started to wonder what he was doing. But when he emerged wearing just a towel, he explained quickly, as if he was trying to reassure me that he wasn’t walking around half naked for the hell of it.
“I washed my clothes. To get the blood out. I’ve hung them on the towel rack. They should be dry enough to wear soon. Or not.”
And he gave me a small smile, because damp clothes were the least of his worries.
I returned his smile as best I could.
“I saw a Walmart next door,” I said, striving for a conversational tone. “I’ll go see if I can buy you some jeans and a few t-shirts or . . .”
Ash held up his hand, halting my teetering words.
“No. You’ve done enough. I can’t take . . .”
“Ash,” I said, gently interrupting. “It’s not taking—it’s me giving. And we’re in this together.”
He closed his eyes and muttered something in his own language.
“I’ll pay you back. Everything.”
“How about this,” I said carefully. “It’s a simple idea—I’m sure you know it: pay it forward.”
Ash stared at me blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“I helped you because I could, because I wanted to. Maybe one day you’ll see someone who needs help, so you’ll help them just because you can. And they do the same. Paying it forward, you see?”
Ash swallowed and I watched the subtly erotic movement of his throat.
“You are a good person,” he said.
Was I? Was I a good person? Lusting after this damaged man while my boyfriend/unboyfriend stayed at home?
Ash was still watching me.
“What’s your name? Your family name, I mean.”
I smiled. Getting-to-know-you talk—yes, I could do that.
“Hennessey. Laney Hennessey. Irish American for five generations. What about you?”
“Alja? Novak. My father is Jure. Like how you say ‘George’.”
I waited for more, but that was all he said.
“That’s your whole family?”
Ash nodded.
No mother? No brothers and sisters? I found that unbearably sad. I forced myself to keep the tone cheerful.
“Well, if we’re doing my family, we’ll be here forever.”
The corner of Ash’s mouth lifted in a smile.
“My clothes are drying—and I’m not going anywhere in a towel.”
Yep, I was an altruist—saving women the world over from a gorgeous man with abs I could count, wearing nothing but a towel.
“Hmm, a captive audience!” I teased him. “You asked for it. My father is Brian, he’s a police captain, like I said. My mother is Bridget, she’s a homemaker; and I have three sisters, Bernice, Linda and Sylvia; they’re married to Al, Joe and Mario, with seven kids between them. My Uncle Donald is in the fire department and he’s married to Carmen. They’ve got four children—my cousins, Stephen, Paddy, Eric and Michael. My mom’s sister, Lydia, is married to Uncle Paul, and they have two children, Trisha and Amelia. Heard enough yet? Because there’s a ton of second cousins and family friends who are nearly family, too.”
“Wow!” Ash blinked, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of people.”
“They’re great, most of the time,” I smiled. “But having a big family . . . I’m the youngest of the first cousins, so it’s like I have six moms and dads and a dozen brothers and sisters, and they’re all up in my business the whole time.”
I shook my head.
“You should see our house at Thanksgiving—crazy.”
I waited for Ash to say something else about his family, but a distant expression clouded his face. I already knew he wasn’t close to his father, and he hadn’t mentioned his mother. Perhaps she wasn’t in his life? Or perhaps it was none of my business.
I cleared my throat.
“Why don’t you order from one of these takeout menus, and while we’re waiting, I’ll go see what delights Walmart has to offer?”
Ash fiddled with the edge of his towel, a frown on his face, and I sighed.
“We talked about this,” I reminded him gently. “You pay it forward when you have the chance. Now what shoe size are you?”
“Forty-six,” he muttered after a short pause.
I raised my eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me?”
Ash looked up at the surprise in my voice then shook his head as if to clear it.
“Twelve in US sizes. Sorry.”
“You had me worried there for a minute,” I laughed.
I glanced down at his bare feet, suddenly reminded that there was a lot of naked male flesh on view. Even sitting on the edge of a motel bed he looked elegant, his muscled calves leading to thick, strong thighs, and his stomach was a flat slab of muscle above the towel, his ridged abdominals moving with each breath, the planes of his chest defined but not bulging. But the bruises . . .
I tore my gaze away before I met his eyes. I didn’t want him to see my thoughts.
“What size pants?” I asked quickly.