Lily White Lies(57)

“I’d like to get the blood and dirt out of my hair and take a bath before I put on clean clothes.”

“I can’t blame you. Here, let me help you up the stairs.”

Still a little stunned by my collision with the tree, I took the stairs one at a time, Con’s protective arm wrapped firmly around my waist with each one. His attentiveness, my unexplainable calm, our situation—all elements of the most awkward weekend of my life, but somehow, it was all beginning to feel so natural.

I stood in the middle of the bathroom and watched as he placed my clothes on the vanity, ran my water and checked for everything I’d need for a bath.

“Okay then. I think that should do it.” He turned to leave and then suddenly stopped and turned around. “If you need anything else, I’ll be right here.”

“Right... here?”

Motioning to the hallway, he answered, “If you’d like—but I was referring to right... out here. I’d feel better sticking around in case you feel dizzy or need anything.”

A nod and a simple smile replaced my verbal reply as he closed the door behind him. Just knowing that he was on the other side of the door was enough to send a chill up my back that would take more than a soak in warm water to eliminate.

I was certain he wouldn’t swing the door open without an invitation, but visions of him doing so danced through my head. I had a whole scenario playing out and wondered if he could forget the girl of his dreams long enough to see me in the same light.

With my dirty clothes lying on the floor, I stared at the door between us for several seconds, and then said, “Maybe we should talk while I’m in here... so that you know I’m still okay.” I stepped into the water and shivered. Before he could reply, I continued. “So tell me, this girl of your dreams, what’s she like? I’m picturing her as... maybe a Julia Robert’s type.”

I heard his laugh, even through the door that separated us. “No, too much smile.”

“Okay, what about Lisa Kudrow?”

“Too blonde. How about you? Let’s see, who’s your type? Hugh Grant maybe?”

“Too... well, too much hair going on there. How about Sandra Bullock?”



“Too perfect,” he paused, “but your hair reminds me of hers.”

I laughed. “What’s too perfect?”

“You know, too smart, too pretty, too spunky, too talented... too perfect. Don’t change the subject... Tom Cruise?”

“No, too short. Angelina?”

“Too Brad. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the other one begins. But how about you... for Brad Pitt?”

“Too pretty.” I tipped my head back in the water to soak my hair. “I give up, who is the woman of your dreams?”

There was a long silence and I instinctively cocked my head to listen for sounds of movement on the other side of the door. He finally replied, “Keeping with famous people, I’d have to say Ashley Judd would come close. She has a petite, pretty face and she always seems to be smiling. She’s smart enough, talented enough and funny enough, but not too much of anything.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I sat quietly, thought about her qualities and wondered if I had any of them.

“What about you? You shot down all of my suggestions. Who’s your type?”

I gave his question some thought, and then joked, “Wow, I didn’t realize how tough this question was when I was asking it to you.”

He laughed and said, “Tell me about it,” quickly adding, “But I answered.”

“Yes you did.” Running the warm cloth lightly over my skin, I inhaled deeply and said, “I guess I’d have to say Matthew McConaughey. Nice body, great smile... and, oh, that accent... I could listen to him talk all day.”

“What attracts you to a man when you first...?”

“Confidence.”

“That was fast.”

“It was an easy question. You?”

“Not having too much of anything but having just enough of everything.”

I laughed. “Ashley Judd.”

“Not exactly, but you’ve got the idea.”

I wanted to know something but I hesitated several times before talking myself into asking.

“This woman of your dreams... how do you know she represents your future wife? I mean, couldn’t she be... a long, lost cousin or your first crush from elementary school?”

There was a long silence and I imagined him running a hand through his sun-streaked hair, contemplating his answer.

“I’ve always assumed that she’s my wife because she’s always portrayed that way. I sense the bond between us, even in the dream. She often appears in my dream with two young boys and a little girl; I’ve always wanted three children.” He paused. “I don’t know how to explain it. She just fits.”