Part 2 (1/2)
”Is this where you keep your towels?” He stood in front of her linen cupboard. ”I couldn't find any upstairs.”
”Towels?” she parroted.
”Yes, you're soaking wet.”
His deep, patient voice decimated her poise to that of a tongue-tied schoolgirl standing in the princ.i.p.al's office.
”Bottom shelf.” It was then Lauren noticed the clothes tucked under his arm.
Drew's red and blue Superman pajamas, and her much-worn sweats.h.i.+rt and yoga pants. No boring cotton underwear in sight. Thank goodness.
”Here you go.” He pa.s.sed her a towel and placed the stack of clothes beside the washbasin.
”Thanks.” She buried her heat-stained cheeks in the soft folds and scrubbed at her hair.
Get with it, Lauren. He's just being nice. Kind and helpful and nice. Nate Fraser certainly didn't seem like the type of man to rummage in a woman's lingerie for kicks.
She lowered the towel, her hope he'd become bored while she'd dried her hair dashed. Still there. Dominating the room, gaze steady as he draped a towel around his wide shoulders. As if he didn't intend to leave any time soon. Short of knocking him unconscious with the nearby bathroom scales, she couldn't imagine a way of removing him.
He opened the medicine cabinet. ”Is your first aid kit in here?”
She nodded, and he plucked out a plastic container with a white cross taped to the lid.
”Now.” He leaned back against the washbasin, crossing his ankles and flas.h.i.+ng a feral smile. ”Can you manage removing those wet clothes by yourself, or do you need me to help?”
Blood napalmed the length of her body again. ”I can handle it.”
”If you're sure.” He rubbed the towel along the back of his neck with lazy strokes. Broad shoulders and defined pectoral muscles s.h.i.+fted beneath his black tee s.h.i.+rt with each up and down motion of his hand.
Lauren blinked. What on earth?
Nate turned and sauntered out of her bathroom.
Don't. Have some pride.
But she couldn't prevent her gaze from dropping from the width of his back to his hips...and lower. The man possessed an A-plus example of a tight, male a.s.s.
Lauren hopped forward and shut the door. She rested her brow against the cool wood until her pulse slowed from a crazy gallop to a respectable trot. Maybe she'd knocked her head earlier and now suffered from some weird form of concussion.
She stripped out of her wet shorts and tee s.h.i.+rt then perched on the edge of the bathtub to tug on the dry clothes. Alone, she would've remained in the bathroom for a few moments longer. But if Drew woke to find a strange man in their home, it could wipe out everything she'd worked toward these last two years.
Using the walls for balance, she grabbed the Superman pajamas and hopped all the way into the kitchen. Her gaze darted to Drew-still out of it, thank goodness. She looked toward Nate, who sat at her dining table, dark hair tumbling onto his brow, long, concert-pianist fingers rifling through the first aid kit. He plucked a tube of Arnica cream from the container and laid it beside a roll of elasticated bandage.
”Sit down, and I'll wrap your ankle.” He pitched his voice low, flicking a glance at the couch.
”You don't have to do this,” Lauren said from the archway.
”I'm happy to drive you to Bounty Bay's hospital, if you'd prefer.”
A forty-minute trip each way into town. Plus curious faces, medical records, questions...
After one more look at her son, she slid her gaze back to Nate. ”I don't need to go to hospital for a sprained ankle.”
”So sit, and I'll stick a compression bandage on it.”
She hopped to the seat opposite him and sat.
He held out his hand. ”Foot.”
”Do you always administer first aid to strangers?” She tugged up the leg of her yoga pants and placed her left foot in his outstretched palm. Warmth soaked into her skin. She nearly squirmed.
Nate rested her heel on his knee. ”Only the pretty ones, but not usually ones with big, vicious dogs.”
Lauren rolled her eyes, ignoring the s.h.i.+vers spiraling up her leg from the rough denim touching her skin. ”Java's not vicious.”
”Another misunderstood Rottweiler, huh?” He twisted the cap off the Arnica cream.
Wild flutters exploded inside her stomach. She didn't want his touch, didn't want him this close. Close enough that the enticing top notes of sandalwood in his cologne tickled her nose.
He must've felt her foot s.h.i.+ft, as his green gaze jerked to hers.
”I'll try not to hurt you again.”
Did he remember her overreaction on the road? Better he think her a wimp than suspect the real reason. ”I guess I have a low tolerance for pain.”
”Don't we all.” Nate bent forward, squeezing a small amount of the cream onto her ankle.
She flinched and grabbed the chair edge.
He crooked an eyebrow. ”That couldn't have hurt.”
”No, it didn't hurt. It's just cold.”
Their gazes met, held for an awkward beat before she looked down at the blob of cream. His fingers slid under her calf to support the weight of her leg, while his other hand stroked ointment over the swollen skin. Each stroke of those long fingers sent warm swirls of sensation dancing up her back and across her scalp. She should've spread the cream on herself, which begged the question of why she hadn't.
Lauren risked a glance up from her ankle to find Nate watching. She cleared the half dozen frogs from her throat.
”Have you taken first aid courses?”
He gave a brief shake of his head. ”Not formal ones. My mother's a nurse, so I picked up the basics. The rest I learned on the job.”
”As a photojournalist, not a photographer.”
After unraveling the end of the bandage, he wound it around her foot and ankle in a figure eight. ”Uh-huh.”
”Is it a dangerous job?”