Page 15

"No," I assure him. "Just... new."

Understanding crosses his features. He continues with careful strokes, his attention focused entirely on my comfort.

"Thank you," I whisper when he's finished.

"For what?" he asks, wringing out the cloth.

"For being careful with me." The words seem inadequate for what I'm trying to express. "Not just now, but before, too. In the kitchen."

His expression softens. "You deserved care for your first time." He pauses, regret crossing his features. "Though I wasn't as gentle as I should have been."

"You were perfect," I tell him honestly. "Exactly what I needed. What I wanted."

He looks unconvinced but doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches for a bottle of shampoo. His fingers in my hair feelsindescribably good, massaging my scalp with just the right pressure. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation.

When he's finished washing my hair, he helps me rinse, one large hand shielding my eyes from the water he pours from a cup.

After helping me from the tub, he wraps me in a large, soft towel, rubbing gentle circles on my back as I snuggle into the warmth.

"I should find you something else to wear," he says, looking at the discarded clothes on the floor. They were the only ones that survived the fire. "Those won't do. Do you need help dressing?"

"I can manage," I assure him, suddenly wanting a moment alone to process everything that's happened.

He nods, pressing a kiss to my forehead that feels unexpectedly intimate. "Take whatever you need from my closet. I'll make us something to eat."

Oh, right.We were supposed to be making breakfast.

After he leaves, I lean against the counter, studying my reflection in the mirror. My lips are slightly swollen, a flush still lingering on my chest, small marks on my hips where his fingers pressed into my skin.

I look like a woman who's been thoroughly loved. The romance novelist in me appreciates the visual narrative; the woman in me is still processing the reality of it.

After drying off, I wrap the towel around myself and venture into his bedroom to find clothes. The room is as ordered as the rest of the cabin. The only decorative items are a few framed photographs on the dresser.

I open a drawer, finding neatly folded t-shirts, and borrow one that will hang like a dress on my smaller frame. As I close the drawer, my gaze returns to the photographs.

One shows a younger Alex standing between two other men. They look happy, carefree in a way I haven't seen on Alex'sface. The next shows them in front of a house I don't recognize, holding up beers in a toast.

With a start, I realize these must be Mike and Jason—the roommates he lost in the fire. I pick up the cookout photo, studying their faces. One is tall and lanky with glasses, the other stockier with a wide grin. Both look young, full of life.

"What are you doing?"

Alex's voice from the doorway makes me jump. I fumble the frame, nearly dropping it before setting it back on the dresser.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I was just looking for a shirt and saw the photos."

His expression closes off completely, the openness from our bath time together vanished behind a mask of controlled displeasure.

"Those are private," he says stiffly.

"I didn't mean to intrude." I clutch the towel tighter around me. "I was just curious about them. About Mike and Jason."

His jaw tightens. "They're not a topic for discussion."

"Alex, I understand grief."

"No, you don't," he interrupts, his voice sharp. "You don't understand anything about it."

The sudden coldness hurts more than I expected. "That's not fair. I was just trying to help."