Chapter 16: The Unspoken Invitation
He chuckled, the sound warm and relieved in the small, humid room. “You’re the best, Deb.Seriously. Most people would’ve… I don’t know, screamed or something.”
“And miss my morning comedy?” she said, waving a hand. The silk of her robe slipped a little on her shoulder. She didn’t adjust it. “Go on, get out. Some of us have clients to see and need to brush our teeth without an audience.”
“Right, right.” He nodded, finally turning. He moved with that easy, unhurried grace, stepping out of the tub onto the worn bathmat. Water droplets fell from the defined lines of his lower back. He reached for the towel on the rack—the one he’d used earlier—and gave his hair a rough, final scrub before slinging it around his waist, tucking the end in with a practiced twist. The motion was so casual, so utterly unselfconscious. The earlier sharp evidence of his embarrassment was gone, softened, but the memory of it, the shape of it, was seared into the steam between them.
He padded past her, his bare shoulder brushing hers in the narrow space. A spark, instantaneous and electric, shot down her arm. He didn’t seem to notice. “Thanks for not making it weird,” he said over his shoulder, his smile genuine and wide.
“It’s only weird if you make it weird, kiddo,” she said, forcing another laugh. It sounded tinny to her own ears.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. The sudden silence was immense, broken only by the slow drip-drip-drip from the showerhead and the low hum of the water heater. Debbie didn’t move. She stared at the closed door, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain was a shock against her skin.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It shuddered from her lungs.
The mirror was still fogged, but a clear patch had formed at chest level, revealing the reflection of a woman with flushed cheeks and wide, uncertain eyes. She leaned forward, her breath misting the glass again. Kiddo. The word tasted like ash in her mouth now, a lie wrapped in a maternal endearment. Her body was thrumming, alive in a way it hadn’t been in years. It wasn’t just the sight of him. It was his trust, his easy acceptance of her presence in that vulnerable moment. He had stood there, exposed in every sense, because she had made him feel safe. The power of that, the terrifying intimacy of it, coiled hot in her stomach.
She turned on the tap, splashing cold water on her face. It did little to cool the heat beneath her skin. The faint, clean scent of his soap—unscented, just glycerin and warmth—still hung in the air. She could smell it on the damp towel he’d left bunched on the rack. Her eyes drifted to it. Without thinking, she reached out and touched the damp terrycloth. It was still warm from his body.
A jolt. She snatched her hand back as if burned.
“Get a grip, Debbie,” she whispered to her reflection. The woman in the glass looked back, a stranger hungry for touch. She was a massage therapist in training. Bodies were her study now, her future livelihood. She repeated it like a mantra. Anatomy.Physiology. Professional boundaries. But the words were hollow against the visceral memory of muscle and heat and the frank, unashamed proof of his youth.