As she turned and walked off, he called out, “How was your date the other night?”
She pivoted back around. “What are you talking about?”
“With Moe.”
At that, he struggled to get himself up off the cold concrete floor of the stable. When he couldn’t manage it, she lifted a brow. “You know, I do believe I will leave you there.”
Above his head, Neb snickered like the stallion was laughing.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Edward gritted out.
Without warning, his hand slipped and his body slammed down to the concrete so hard his teeth clapped together.
“You are going to kill yourself,” she muttered as she marched back over.
Shelby picked him up with all the care one might offer to a fallen pitchfork—but he had to give her credit. Even though she came up to only his breastbone, she was more than strong enough to get him down the aisle, out of the bay, and across the lawn to his cottage.
Once they were inside, he nodded to his chair. “Over there would be—”
“Y’all hypothermic. That’s not going to happen.”
Next thing he knew, she’d sat him down on his toilet seat and was starting the bath.
“I’ll take it from here,” he said, leaning to the side and letting the wall catch him. “Thanks.”
He was just shutting his eyes when she slapped him in the face. “Wake up.”
The sting did bring him around, and he rubbed his cheek. “Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes, I did. And I’ll do it again.” She shoved his toothbrush into his mouth. “Use that.”
It was hard to talk around the damn thing, so he did what he was told, working the left side, the right, the front, the under parts. Then he bent over and spit in the sink.
“It’s not that cold,” he said.
“How would you know. You’re saturated drunk.”
Actually, he wasn’t—and that was probably part of the problem. For the first time in how long, he hadn’t had anything to drink the night before— “What are you doing?” he said as her hands went to his fleece.
“I’m getting you undressed.”
“Really.”
While she worked his clothes, he looked at her body. It was hard to see much of it, what with her sweatshirt, and he decided to reach for her to test out that waist.
She stopped. Stepped back. “I’m not interested in that.”
“Then why are you taking my clothes off.”
“Because your lips are blue.”
“Turn that off.” He pointed to the faucet. “I’ll take it from here.”
“You’ll drown.”
“So what if I do. Besides, you don’t want to see what’s under here.”
“I’ll be waiting out by your chair.”
“And doesn’t that give me something to look forward to,” he said under his breath.
She shut the door behind her with a clap—and he didn’t follow through on anything. He just went back to leaning against the wall and looking at the steaming water.
“I don’t hear any splashing,” she said from outside.
“It’s not deep enough for me to swim in yet.”
Knock. Knock. Knock. “Hop to it, Mr. Baldwine.”
“That’s my father. And he’s an asshole. I go by Edward.”
“Shut up and get in the water.”
Even through the fog of his stupor, he felt a flare of something for her. Respect, he supposed it was.
But who cared—
Boom, boom, boom!
“You are going to break that door down,” he yelled over the noise. “And I thought you didn’t want to see me naked.”
“Water. Now,” she clipped out. “And I don’t, but better that than you being dead.”
“Matter of opinion, my dear girl.”
And yet he decided to do what she said. For some insane reason.
Bracing his arms on the sink and the back of the old-fashioned toilet, he hefted his body up to his feet. His clothes were a pain in the ass, but he got them off … and then he was in the tub. Strangely, the warm water had the opposite effect that it should have. Instead of heating him up, it made him feel freezing cold, and he began to shiver so badly, he created chop on the surface of the bath.
Crossing his arms over his chest, his teeth rattled together, and his heart skipped beats.
“You okay in there?” she asked.
When he didn’t answer, Shelby said more loudly, “Edward?”
The door burst open and she jumped into the bathroom like she was prepared to go lifeguard and save him from twenty-four inches of water. And it was horrible … as she looked down at him, all he could do was stare into the messy water—and hope that it covered up his spindly legs, his flaccid sex, his white skin with its purple scars.
He was pretty sure she gasped.
Smiling up at her, he said, “Pretty, aren’t I. But believe it or not, I’m fully functional. Well, Viagra helps. Be a darling, would you, and bring me some alcohol—I think I’m detoxing and that’s why I’m shaking like this.”
“Do you …” She cleared her throat. “Do you n-n-need a doctor?”
“No, just some Jim Beam. Or Jack Daniel’s.”