So not gonna happen.
***
“Hey, Mac, do you want--Whoa!” The door crashed open, and Dylan stumbled into the bathroom carrying a cup of hot cocoa, the dark brown brew spilling over the rim.
I gasped, sloshing around in the tub, gagging on soapy water. I was ready to strangle him for disturbing my pleasant dream of locking lips with Ryan Reynolds. Water flew everywhere as I tried to cover up.
Hot Britches’ boots slid across the wet linoleum. His right leg bounced off the toilet, and his arms wind-milled. The steaming brew splashed on his hand as the cup sailed across the room to crash against the wall and fall to the floor in a million ceramic pieces.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Ditto, I thought, and reached out to stop him from landing on me, to no avail. His body plunged down into the tub with a loud splash, dunking me.
I popped up out of the water and sputtered, my nose bumping his chin hard, my hair hanging in my eyes, and my headphones dangling off one ear. Coughing, I shrieked, “Wh-What are you trying to do, drown me?”
“No. I was trying to be nice, but I made the mistake of leaning against the door. You need to get that latch fixed.”
Wrenching my trapped hands from beneath Dylan’s stomach, I snagged the headphones and chucked them to the floor. “It’s at the top of my list. Next time, don’t be nice.” I blinked the water out of my eyes. “I can’t afford for these new contacts to get ruined any more than I can afford a new CD player.” I blinked again, and realized I was naked. And in his arms. In a tub full of soapy water. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
“My fault. I’ll buy you new ones, and even an iPod,” he managed, his gaze roaming over my wet features. “I’ll clean up the mess in a minute.”
I wiggled beneath him, and felt his Mr. Winkie pulse against me as Dylan lay sprawled out on top of me in the way-too-small tub. Chest to chest, belly to belly, his thigh between mine. “Dylan.”
He started to get up. I snaked my arms around him and held on for dear life. “Don’t move.” No way would I let him check out my bumps with nipples or my huge insecurity unclothed!
“Now, you’re talking.” He grinned, then leaned in to kiss me.
Oh, no, I’m not. I slipped my hand between the inch that separated our mouths and covered his lips. “And you’re not listening. What I meant was if you move, you’ll see me.”
“And that’s a problem because?” he mumbled from behind my fingers, kissing my palm, making me tingle all over.
Because I didn’t believe for a minute he’d accidentally barged into my bathroom and fell in my tub just to be nice. “Dylan,” I said in a firmer voice, ignoring the tingles.
“Oh, all right.” He sighed, then started to stand.
Oh, shoot. I felt my eyes go wide, and I tightened my hold on him.
He winked. “Trust me.”
Easier said than done, chief. But I wrapped my arms around his neck anyway as he lifted me from the tub. When he paused, I glanced up, and couldn’t believe he had the nerve to check out my backside in the mirror behind me. “Uh, hello. What happened to ‘trust me?’”
“Sorry.” He spun us around, reaching behind me for a towel, and then wrapped it around me.
“Thanks,” I said, tightening the towel, and he took a step back, thank God.
When he reached forward and brushed a strand of hair off my bare shoulder, I inhaled sharply at the contact. As much as I wanted to dislike him, I couldn’t. He kept doing nice things that had me doubting everything I thought I knew about men. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. That was more reason than ever for me to keep my distance. At least until I figured all this out.
“As pale as moonbeams.” His touch lingered on my skin, and I trembled. He took another unsteady step back and said, “You’d better get dressed.”
He should talk. His clothes were soaked. “Here you go.” I handed him a spare towel and my robe. My rather small, pink terrycloth, splattered with white lambs robe. “Sorry. It’s all I have.” I snickered. Served him right for barging in on me. “There’s a dryer in the laundry room next door when you’re finished. I’ll change in Gloria’s room.”
“Thanks.” He took the girly garment and grimaced.
I left him alone in the bathroom and tried to imagine him wearing the robe, but all I could picture was a cross-dresser in a Broadway musical called, Callie Had a Little Lamb.
Ten minutes later, I emerged from Gloria’s room, feeling human again in an oversized T-shirt and sweats.
Someone pounded on my front door. “Let me in, Mac.”