Everything I Left Unsaid(79)

Smiling, he reached into a glass-lined shower and turned on the faucet. Water thundered down from a big, round showerhead and the glass near the floor immediately got foggy.

There was a bathtub next to the shower, one of those big Jacuzzi ones. And a toilet beside that. Outside the window over it, there was only sky.

“Are we taking a shower?” I asked, excited by the idea.

“You are. And you’re going to take your time.”

“Are you telling me I stink?”

“No. I’m telling you I need twenty minutes to get things organized.”

“For what?”

“Your birthday.”

He grabbed the hem of my shirt and lifted it up over my head. This was another strange minute when I kind of missed my long hair. It would feel good falling down over my bare shoulders. It would probably look good, reflected back in all these mirrors. And I sort of…I sort of wanted him to see it. To see part of the old me and find it desirable. The parts of me that no one found desirable. I wondered what he would think—of my red hair. My Del Monte cap. My cowboy boots.

The steam was filling the room now, and when he reached around me to pull at my pants, I braced my arms behind me and lifted my hips.

He smiled down at the red hair between my legs, his thumb stroked through it, and I looked down to the see the red curls there around his thumb.

Other women shaved. I didn’t. I’d never been waxed. I trimmed the hair because it was hot and I felt cleaner when I did it.

“Why’d you dye your hair?” he asked.

Because I’m running from my husband who tried to kill me.

Reality was intrusive. A bully pounding on the door, and I ignored it as best I could.

Twenty-four hours and then I’d go back to reality.

“I just wanted a change,” I lied.

His thumb slid deeper and I spread my legs wider, lifting my hips higher, jerking when he hit my clit and then lingered there, rolling it against his thumb.

“Dylan…” I breathed, leaning back against the mirror behind me.

He growled but then he stepped back, took a deep breath. “Get in the shower,” he said.

“Now?” I blinked.

“Preparations,” he said. He pressed a quick, hard kiss to my shoulder and then was gone.





The difference between every other shower I’ve ever had and Dylan’s shower was the difference between what happened between Dylan and me on the couch and what happened alone on my bed.

The shower was huge, the hot water endless. And it came out of that showerhead like a spring rain.

I was considering moving into that shower. Maybe I could sublet it.

There was a razor in the shower and masculine-smelling soap and shampoo. I used it all, until I smelled like Dylan. I shaved my armpits and my legs and then, staring down at my pubic hair? I decided why not.

Using plenty of shaving cream and sitting on the bench on the far end of the shower where the water didn’t hit me, I shaved my pubic hair. Not all of it.

Still Annie McKay after all.

But some. The edges. The top and then down between my legs. I rinsed off the shaving cream and felt…bare. Deliciously bare. Like a harem girl in the historical romance I’d read.

The hot water turned tepid and I cranked it off, opening the glass door to a room full of steam. When it cleared, I found a towel and a black robe on the marble counter where I’d been sitting.

He’d snuck in while I’d been shaving. I wondered what he’d seen. I wondered if he’d watched. Between my legs I felt puffy. Totally different.

The robe was silk and way too big and even though I rolled up the sleeves and looped the belt around my waist twice, I was still swimming in it.

But it was silky and perfect against my skin and Dylan had laid it out for me, so why would I change? The bedroom when I came out of the bathroom was dark. A king-size bed covered in a dark duvet monopolized the room. There was a dresser on a far wall. A closet in the corner, with the door left partially open. Inside I could see suits. Three or four suits. A tuxedo. I stepped forward and reached into the closet, touching the black sleeve of the tuxedo jacket. There was no label inside, which I gathered to mean he’d had it made custom. And the fabric was the softest, finest thing I’d ever touched.

One day, I thought, looking at that jacket, pushing aside the anxiety it gave me. I have one day in this magical house. Try not to ruin it. The door to the rest of the house was open and I could hear music from the kitchen. And I could smell food. Good food.

My stomach got excited. It had been many hours since the cornbread I’d eaten with peanut butter (a terrible combination) for dinner.

I got even more excited when I stepped into that kitchen and found Dylan drinking beer and putting food out on that barn table. He was listening to music I didn’t recognize. But I never recognized music.

“Wow, these are some serious preparations,” I said, trying to be light to hide all my misgivings. My nerves. The nonstop pounding of reality.

“Hey!” He looked up, his eyes taking in the dark robe and my damp hair. “That looks real good on you.” I did a little preen, pretending to poof up my hair or something. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“You have anything in a bucket?” He shot me a quizzical look and I waved it off. “I’ll have whatever is easy.” My pat answer.