Page 28 of His Last Shot

Consume Me

Rachel

B efore I can even register what’s happening, I’m sitting on one of my bar stools, with my head tilted back over my farmhouse-style sink, a towel under my neck for comfort, and Johnny is using the sprayer to wet my hair.

How is this my life right now?

“Is the temperature okay?” he asks. The water hits my head, warm and comforting.

“Mmm…hmm,” I murmur as my eyes flutter close because I can’t form words at the moment.

My head is a chaotic mess of thoughts, swirling and colliding like cars in a pile-up as I try to make sense of the last twenty minutes.

Johnny knows about my RA. He has known since the day he met me. And he doesn’t care. Ever since his confession, this same thought keeps running through my head in a loop. It’s almost too good to be true.

He knew.

He always knew.

“Oh, wait, hold on a sec,” he says as he turns off the faucet. “I need to roll my sleeves up.”

On instinct, I watch as he unbuttons his wrist collar on the navy blue button-down shirt he is wearing and rolls the fabric up his toned forearms.

Well, well, well, it looks like construction does a body good because, oh, my God, hello, forearms !

Holy crap on a cracker.

The whole thing is happening at a crawl, and I can’t stop staring, unblinking.

His brawny hands tug and pull on the fabric as, inch by inch, his smooth, tan skin is being exposed.

Blue veins snake along the underside of his arm as my mouth goes completely dry.

A flush rises in my cheeks, hot and fiery. I probably look like a tomato.

He finishes the second sleeve and catches me gawking.

Busted!

I quickly jerk my eyes away and squeeze them shut, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Awesome. He caught me staring and drooling.

“You okay? Your cheeks are a little pink there, Rach,” he asks, and I can tell he’s smirking that sexy smirk he always has.

“I’m fine. Yep … totally fine.” It comes out all hoarse.

He chortles as he goes about what he was doing. Which was what exactly?

Oh yeah, washing my hair. Geez, concentrate, Rachel!

He must grab the shampoo bottle because I hear it click open, followed by a squirt. He dispenses it into his hand.

As he gently massages the shampoo into my strands, the aroma of papaya and mango wafts through the kitchen. His fingertips massage my scalp, the pressure soothing and expert. He wasn’t kidding.

“Dear Lord, you are really good at this.” I try not to sound like I’m panting.

Give the man a gold medal in hair washing. Throw in a silver and bronze, too.

He chuckles as he continues to work the suds in.

“Yeah. My mom was desperate for a hair washer one summer when I was sixteen. So she showed me how. I thought it was going to be a great way to meet and flirt with some girls.” He huffs out a laugh.

“Little did I know that all my mom’s clients were over the age of sixty.

But it worked out in my favor because they loved me.

I turned on the charm, and the tips followed. ”

The mental image of Johnny, a gangly teenager, delicately washing the hair of all the older women cracks me up; it was utterly ridiculous.

The kitchen gets silent as he rinses out the suds, only to apply some more shampoo, and I am entirely too excited that I’m getting the wash and repeat.

The pressure of his fingers around the base of my scalp sends waves of relaxation through my body.

He tenderly lifts my head, his firm hands kneading the knots in my neck due to all the stress I’ve had.

Dear Lord, this feels fantastic.

Without any conscious thought, a moan of pure satisfaction slips past my lips. “Mmm…”

Johnny’s hands go still.

“Sorry.” Embarrassment courses through me as I silently scold myself. Good job making it awkward.

He remains motionless. Not moving. What is he doing? I can hear his heavy, ragged breathing, and his hands are still resting on my neck.

Don’t open your eyes, Rachel! Don’t do it. Do not —

I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, his gaze intense and unwavering.

His brow pinches together, and the temperature in this room suddenly rises about twenty degrees.

The chemistry that has ebbed and flowed these last few months is ready to explode.

His chest heaves, each rise and fall a visible struggle. As if he is in pain.

He shakes his head, lets out a low exhale, and his hands work once again.

Johnny continues, not uttering a sound. Which is a good thing because my mouth can’t form any words at the moment. I close my eyes, gluing them shut.

The man is all round me. He’s everywhere. His smell, his strength. When he bends over to gather my hair, his hot breath skates across my face. He stands over me, tall, evoking a sense of security, protectiveness, and an intense attraction.

Like he has since the day we met.

Before long, he’s spraying the shampoo out, followed by the conditioner, a final rinse and squeeze of any excess water out of my strands, and we are all done.

Phew. Full disclosure here. That was one of the best experiences of my whole life.

But what now? He is going to leave? Are we going to talk about everything?

He turns off the faucet. “Okay … all done. Just let me wrap your hair.” Before I realize it, he’s skillfully wrapping my hair in a towel, forming a flawless turban. I make a move to sit up and hiss, wincing from the pain. He grips my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait, let me help you.”

He noticed.

I’m swooning.

Johnny’s powerful hand is now resting on the base of my skull as he gently lifts my head and helps me into a standing position. The turban almost slips off with the movement, but before I can react, he’s right there adjusting it. “Here, I got it.”

He’s there.

He’s always there.

For me.

“Thank you.” The two grateful words come out raspy and strained as I attempt to be cool. And I’m failing, obviously.

Without warning, we are inches apart. Neither of us say a word. We just stand in my kitchen, our bodies pulsing in each other’s presence. Every fiber of my being is reaching out to him. Begging to hold him.

His gaze lingers on my lips for a moment, igniting a spark inside me.

A single bead of water trails my cheek as I stare into his piercing hazel eyes, trying to remember how to breathe.

He swipes the droplet with his thumb and slowly grazes my neck as goosebumps erupt all over my body.

And I mean everywhere. Who knew you could get goosebumps on your toes?

Well, I’m here to tell you it’s possible.

He removes the towel draped over my shoulders and cocks his head toward the living room.

“Why don’t you sit in front of that chair over there?

” He points to my favorite huge, comfy chair that rests in the corner of the living room.

“Are you able to do that?” I nod, still unable to form words.

A virtual mute at this point. “I’ll clean this up. Where do you keep your hairbrush?”

My heart catches, surprise shooting through me. “You’re going to brush my hair, too?” He doesn’t answer. We stare. Our silent communication is loud and clear. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to, Rachel. Now, where’s your hairbrush?”

“It’s in the top drawer in the bathroom. Down the hall, first door on the left. ”

He cups both sides of my face, gently pulls my head forward, and kisses my forehead. His round, plump lips rest there briefly before he pulls away. “Go relax. I’ll be right back.”

I watch his back recede down the hallway. He looks good at my house. He looks good, period.

But mostly, he’s just Johnny.

Before I know it, I’m sitting with my legs outstretched in front of me. My back is against the chair, and Johnny is sitting behind me. Both of his thick thighs rest on either side of my body, and I’m pretty sure this is the best almost-non-date of my life.

The brush glides through my wet hair even though I’m sure it’s completely tangle-free at this point, yet neither of us wants this to end.

He lets out a contented sigh. “I love your hair,” he confesses.

“My hair, huh? That’s what you love about me?”

Wait! What am I saying? Shut up, Rachel!

He chuckles, unfazed by basically telling him he’s in love with me, as the brush makes another pass along the side of my scalp. “Let me rephrase that. It’s one of my favorite things. I love everything about you. Everything. Even your flaws.”

Okay, wow.

Did he just admit to loving me? I can’t go there right now. Not yet.

He continues. “You’re perfect. And if people don’t know that about you, well, then they are missing out. Because I see it. Every time I see you.”

Those words, so raw and unexpected, resonate with a depth I’d never encountered.

My skin prickles with excitement. Not even Drew said those things to me, and we were engaged to be married.

He would only talk about my body as if it was an object.

A possession. His attraction to me was always surface-level.

But Johnny? He sees me. All of me. Inside and out .

Johnny must be thinking about Drew as well because he has questions.

“Did Drew know about your RA?”

If there is one conversation I hate more than anything, it’s talking about Drew. Telling Johnny about him that day in the bar was necessary. Little by little, I was letting Johnny in, but now, he deserves to know all of it. Even if it brings up painful memories I want to forget.

The words catch on my tongue, but then somehow, they release. “He did,” I answer as another pass of the brush runs through my tresses.

“How did he handle it?” he volleys back.

Another swipe.

“I wouldn’t know. He never talked about it with me.”

The brush glides through again.

“What do you mean?” he inquires.

Bristles massage my head.