Page 43 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
After maybe thirty seconds of rummaging, she says, “Okay, got what I need. I’m going to shower.”
I nod, turning back around. “Take your time,” I say. “I don’t need much hot water. So just…yeah. Take your time.” I hate to think of her rushing just because of me. Her hair alone will require more water than my entire body probably needs.
She doesn’t say anything, though; she just looks at me for a second, and I squirm under her scrutiny. Then she smiles and heads to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
And look at that—more anxiety. I huff out an irritable breath, flattening my hair absently. I need to get over this. I can’t keep her in my sight at all times. I can’t keep a constant eye on her. And judging by what she told me this morning, it would drive her nuts if I tried. She doesn’t need someone hovering around her, just waiting for her to start convulsing. No, she doesn’t have her medicine—but I’m going to have to trust her to know her own body. It’s all I can do.
I spend the next fifteen minutes channeling my anxious energy into picking up—putting a used bowl in the sink, straightening the couch cushions unnecessarily, putting dirty clothes in the hamper. There’s no reason for me to be doing this—I don’t need to impress Molly of all people—but I can’t quite stop myself. I’m just throwing away an old flier when I hear the bathroom door creak open, the hinges protesting. I turn around just in time to see Molly step out.
Her hair is freed from all constraints, hanging long and dark red as she towels it dry. It leaves wet spots on the shoulders of her shirt—myshirt—and I watch, fascinated, at the way her curls fall, at tendrils that loop over her ears and the droplets of water that cling to the ends.
My clothes on her are an odd fit; gender differences aside, our bodies are shaped vastly differently. I’m tall and fairly lean, while Molly is short and curvy. As a result, my t-shirt is bordering on too tight but also too long, while the shorts I’ve given her hang a full six inches past her knees.
I’m just grateful she’s out of that swimsuit, to be honest. My sanity can only withstand so much.
The problem is, Molly has so many different kinds of attractiveness. And right now…
“Molly O’Malley,” I say, the words falling out of my mouth as I drink her in. “I do believe you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh,” she says, clearly startled. Her lips form a perfectoas her eyes widen to a deer-in-the-headlights look, and though her skin is already pink from the hot water, I can almost imagine her cheeks turn just a few shades pinker.
And something happens then, completely against my will, as I look at her standing there: my stomach flips, electricity sparking somewhere around my navel. And what’s more, that flip-flopping, electric stomach is accompanied by a feeling of warmth, faint but unmistakable: affection.
Crap.
I am developing actualfeelingsfor this woman. She’s not just affecting my body anymore; my heart is starting to get involved. I can sense it, plain as day, though it’s been well over a year since I had romantic feelings for anyone.
I’m having them now, though.
For my best friend’s little sister.
Crap.
“The clothes are a little long,” she says, tearing me away from this horrific realization. She fists her hands in the hem of the t-shirt and pulls a bit at the extra fabric. “It’s comfortable, though—”
“Wait,” I interrupt before I can stop myself. But I’ve just seen something—a flash of pale skin where she was playing with the hem of the shirt, and something yellow. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” she says, blinking at me with confusion.
I point to the spot I saw, just above her right hip. “I thought I saw yellow. On your skin. Do you have a bruise? Did you get hurt?” I rack my brain, trying to remember if she got hit by anything or fell at all, but I can’t recall.
“Oh,” she says, her expression clearing. She waves one airy hand and says, “No, that’s a tattoo.”
My jaw drops as this registers. “What?” I say stupidly.
“A tattoo,” she repeats, stepping further out into the room.
“Does Wes know about that?” I say. Because Wes still treats Molly like a little girl in pigtails; he’d probably freak if he knew she had ink.
“Of course not,” she says, completely matter-of-factly. “And he’s not going to find out.” Then she sends me a look that I think is supposed to be threatening, her eyes narrowing, lips curving into a frown. But all I can focus on is the way her nose crinkles, and how cute it is.
I’m positive she would not appreciate this observation.
“Look at you,” I say instead, a smile pulling at my lips. “You little rebel.”
“I know,” she says, her eyes sparking with mischief. “But I couldn’t resist. Want to see?”
I should say no. I should tell her that I’m not interested in whatever was so important that she inked it on her pale, perfect skin. But that little smile of hers, impish and full of glee, makes me too curious.
