“You’re not giving me a sponge bath.” The mere thought makes me twitchy and sets my mouth in a firm line.
“Why not? You haven’t cleaned up well all week, Levi. Trust me, your hair’s never looked worse.” She’s smirking now. “Don’t be embarrassed. I promise, I’ve no ulterior motive. As you know, my heart’s otherwise engaged. Let me get shampoo and aloe. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She bolts off the lounge chair before I can lodge another protest. Her earnest lack of interest should elate me, but truthfully, her comment has the opposite effect.
I remove my back brace and lie on the chaise. She returns carrying the products, two towels, a large pot of hot water, and an empty Tupperware container.
“I’m jealous, Levi. I love when someone else washes my hair. That’s the best part of going to the salon.” She covers my chest with a towel to protect me from further sunburn. “Stay on your back, but scoot up here so your head’s a bit above the end of the chaise. Close your eyes.”
In a Tupperware container, she mixes hot water from the pot with cold water from the hose and then empties the warm contents over my head. Her free hand combs through my hair, evenly wetting it all. The sensation strips away my tension.
Once her hands are lathered up with shampoo, her fingers glide through my hair. She applies the perfect amount of pressure to my scalp, sending tiny currents of energy down my neck. I’d gladly stay in this paradise for hours, but, too quickly, fresh warm water rinses over my head. I’m so tranquil I could fall asleep again.
“Can you roll over, Levi?” She mixes another soapy batch in the Tupperware and wrings out a washcloth. Starting at my neck, she gradually works her way down my shoulders and back, steering clear of the bandaged area. “We should get these sweats off you.”
I’m enjoying this blissful process too much to protest. She carefully removes my sweats and scrubs the backs of my legs and my feet. A startling erotic shock jolts through me, suddenly making me uncomfortable.
“Okay. See? Not so terrible, right? Let’s get you up now. You can take care of the rest inside. I’ll get you some clean clothes. Any preference?”
Using the extra towel, she quickly pats down my legs and towel dries my hair. It takes an effort to stand up—like I’m an arthritic old man—but once I’m up, I wrap a towel around my waist. When her fingers unknot the tangles from my hair, my reflexes kick in and I grab her wrist. Jesus, I may need her help, but I’m still a guy whose body reacts when an attractive woman’s touching me.
“I can take it from here.” I hide the evidence of her effect on me by turning toward the door. “Thanks.”
“Okay. I’ll clean this up.”
I wave my arm in the air to acknowledge her remark. Must get away from her right now. Of course, it’s no easy feat for me to get fully undressed, clean myself, and put on fresh clothes. I take my time, opting for a robe rather than ask for help with another pair of pants.
When I return downstairs, she’s got her hands on her hips again.
“What now?” I can’t imagine what made her mad when I wasn’t even in the room.
“The doctor said steps only once each day. I said I’d get you some fresh things. Now you’ve already come down twice, and gone up once. Don’t you want to heal?”
I roll my eyes. “Hey, you ain’t my mama.” Damn, grammar slip. Darkness settles inside me now that I’ve reminded myself of Mama and of Pop’s letter. My attitude shift must be visible, because Lindsey blanches slightly before shrugging and ordering me to lie on the couch.
“How about turkey with some of this pink cranberry mayo?” she asks.
“Fine.” I’m uneasy with her growing familiarity in my space, but am equally unwilling to surrender the benefits of her care and attention. She must’ve acquired this knack from her own parents. But I suspect all this fuss can make one soft.
I won’t allow myself to become soft.
Lindsey sets my lunch on the table and promptly leaves the room. I assume she went to fix her own lunch, but then hear her climbing the stairs. She descends more slowly, like she’s carrying something heavy.
“What’re you doing?” I call out.
She appears, hoisting a laundry basket to her hip. “Laundry.”
“Put it down.” I scowl. “You’re not doing my laundry.”
“You can’t lift anything, Levi. Do you want it to pile up?” She scowls right back at me. “I know how to do laundry. I won’t ruin your clothes.”
Next thing I know, she exits the room with the basket in hand. When she returns, I’m pissed.