Page 78 of Hold Me Tight

I wash my hair twice.

Once to clean it.

And then again, just to feel the quiet comfort of the moment stretch a little longer. It isn’t hesitation. How could it be when every part of me is buzzing with hope, curiosity, and, yeah… nerves.

And when I finally step out and towel off, I feel a little lighter.

A little steadier.

A little braver.

I reach for his robe. It’s thick and plush, wrapping around me completely. What I like most is that it smells just like him. Clean and woodsy, with that warm, spicy undertone that makes my stomach dip and my pulse stutter.

Enveloped in the comfort of him, I take a moment to let everything settle before glancing around the space and pausing near the vanity, checking a drawer, then another, looking for a hair dryer.

When my search turns up empty, I pad barefoot into the bedroom, still towel-drying my hair with one hand. River’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes lift the second I appear before slowly raking down the length of me.

His jaw tics slightly. “You look good in my robe.”

Heat climbs up my neck again, and I cross my arms, as if I’m not affected by the comment or falling just a little bit more with every conversation.

“Do you have a hair dryer?”

“Yup. It’s in the drawer under the sink. Let me grab it for you.”

Rising to his feet, he moves past me into the bathroom before opening the one drawer I hadn’t thought to check, and pulling out a sleek, high-end hair dryer.

“Sit down.” He nods toward the small vanity stool.

I blink, caught off guard. “No, that’s okay. I can?—”

“Sit, Callie.” His voice is quiet yet firm. “Let me do it for you.”

There’s no push in his tone.

No demand.

Just a steady insistence that’s laced with care.

The kind I’m not used to.

The kind that undoes me a little more every time he offers it.

A rush of warmth that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with this man, skitters through me as I lower myself onto the chair. River picks up my brush, plugs in the dryer, and runs his fingers gently through my damp strands before starting.

The hum of the dryer fills the room as warm air kisses the back of my neck. His hands move carefully, brushing through the tangles with such patience that it doesn’t take long for my muscles to uncoil. The bristles glide across my scalp, followed by his fingers. It’s a rhythm that feels strangely intimate.

From beneath my lashes, I watch him in the mirror. His expression is focused and tender. As if what he’s doing is something to be savored.

When the robe slips slightly off one shoulder, he adjusts it without a word, careful to keep me warm. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to drift shut as the tension in my spine melts away. The steady strokes through my hair lull me into a state of contentment.

“No one’s ever done this for me,” I admit, surprised by how raw the words sound out loud.

He pauses for a second, as if allowing the weight of the confession to settle between us. “Isn’t it about time someone did?”

Even though his tone is low and steady, there’s a quiet intensity behind the question that knocks something loose inside me. I swallow hard, blinking against the sudden prick of tears that threaten. It isn’t the gesture. But the care he’s taken with both me and my daughter since we’ve stepped foot in his home.

When he finishes, he unplugs the dryer and sets everything aside before meeting my gaze in the mirror. He doesn’t smile or tease. Instead, he looks at me with a serious expression that makes my throat ache.