The First Taste(19)

“Oh my God.” She bursts into laughter. “Not a shower,” she mimics.

“You knew that’s what I was getting at, didn’t you?” I accuse.

“I just had to hear you say it. You’re awfully handsome for such a girly girl.”

I grunt, then startle her by scooping one arm under her legs and hoisting her into my arms. “I guess you think you’re pretty clever. Now, where the hell do you keep the bubble bath?”





SIX


AMELIA



As I fill the tub, I decide a bubble bath isn’t romantic when it’s simply a follow-up to an intense workout. That’s exactly what Andrew and I just did: worked the shit out of each other.

I drip liquid bath soak into the water, watching bubbles foam and rise. They’re harmless, bubbles and baths. Our rules are still in place, and a little intimacy won’t make us forget ours pasts.

Andrew comes into the bathroom with drink refills. “Sorry it took me a minute,” he says. “I called to say goodnight to my daughter.”

“Oh.” I take my glass. I’d almost forgotten about her, but apparently he hasn’t. Why would he? He seems like a good dad, yet surprisingly well put together for a man with a young child. There’re no stains—markers or spit-up or whatever it is kids do—on his clothing. He doesn’t wear the defeated look some of my girlfriends do. Maybe it’s different for men. But I don’t want to think of him that way, as a father. Tonight, he’s just a man who crossed my path at the right time. I wipe beads of sweat from my temple.

“Smells good in here,” he remarks, walking farther into the bathroom. He picks up the bubble bath and reads, “Apricot cream with Tahitian vanilla extract. What the . . .?”

“What?” I ask.

“They couldn’t find any American vanilla? And they spelled cream wrong for f*ck’s sake.”

I laugh. “It’s crème,” I say. “You know, French? Like crème de la crème.”

He removes the cap and takes a whiff. “God, that’s good. How much did this cost?”

“Not sure. Probably around seventy-five dollars—”

“For bubble bath?”

“It was a gift,” I say, holding up my palms. “I get things like that delivered to the office all the time from clients.”

“No shit? Well, in that case . . .” He reaches behind me and tips half the bottle into the water. “You can never have too many bubbles.”

I shake my head. “That’s at least thirty bucks down the drain.”

“Worth it,” he says.

My face aches from all the smiles I’ve been suppressing. It’s nice to be in such a good mood for a change. As soon as the thought occurs to me, it’s a damp cloth on my joy. Good moods lift you up—and leave a longer way to fall.

I take a sip, looking at him over the rim, remembering how he sucked whisky off my chest earlier. The man’s a machine. I’ve never been held up and f*cked at the same time. The thought of doing it again makes me shudder.

“Cold?” Andrew asks, setting down his drink.

“A little,” I lie.

“Good thing the bath’s almost ready. For the record, this was your idea.”

“All right,” I agree. “It’ll be good incentive for you to keep your mouth shut. If I find out you told Sadie about tonight, the gloves come off. The whole world will know what a girl you are.”

“Deal.”

I like Sadie. She works hard, aims to please, and has smart, innovative ideas. She can’t know about this, though. If I had a brother, I wouldn’t want him sleeping with me, a woman who bashes men like it’s her job. Sadie understands how I got this way—she’s heard enough about my personal life to know how messed up I am.

I turn off the faucet when the bath is nearly full and cross the bathroom to dim the lights. “For ambiance,” I explain, so he doesn’t think I’m trying to be romantic. “You can’t take a bath with all the lights on.”

“Agree.” Andrew peels off his t-shirt. How he managed to get this far in clothing is beyond me. Beyond me or not, any thoughts fly out of my head when I see all of him. Colorful ink paints his chest and upper arms. One tattoo wraps over his left shoulder and a hint of one peeks out from the side of his ribs.

“Wow,” I say.

He tilts his head. “Good wow?” he asks, but by the cocky grin on his face, he seems to think he has me pegged.

His strength was evident when he held me, but now I’m faced with the cut and carve of muscles just beneath the skin. He picks up both our drinks and comes toward me, ink rippling over his olive-toned skin.

“You said you had some tattoos.”

“Did I? More than some.”

I put a hand up to stop him from getting in the bath, suddenly and strangely fascinated by this new body.

“What?” he asks, following my gaze to his chest. “Do they bother you? They’re just pictures.”

“No. I don’t know.” The words come out raspy. Despite his warning, I didn’t imagine him to look like a piece of art. I didn’t expect to uncover a new layer. “Can I touch?”

He laughs. “Of course.”

I run my fingertips over the most vivid one, a bunch of flowers on his pec. They’re the same purple-blue color of his eyes. I’ve never been with a man who looked like this. The tattoos are new to me. As are such defined muscles. He looks as though he spends all his free time at the gym. I don’t think he does, though. As beautiful as they are, I’m not sure how I feel about the tattoos. They’re loud. Permanent. I can’t decide until I know what they mean, but I’m not about to ask. That’s too personal.