Page 100 of The Path to Loving Him
“Trust me when I say you can’t.”
“I can,” I say, growing irritated with him. “Watch.”
I push at his bare chest, ignoring how rock hard it feels against my fingertips, and I shimmy out of the truck, keeping my legs spread as far as they will go. Then, in a crouched position, legs spread, almost freaking walking around like a chimpanzee with their arms out, I wobble over to my apartment stairs . . . stairs that look like they’re one hundred flights up.
Oh boy, this is going to hurt.
I attempt the first step and find it incredibly uncomfortable. So I grab the rail and attempt the second, but before I can even plant my foot firmly into the step, I’m lifted off the ground and whisked over to Ryland’s house.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask. “I was doing just fine.”
“You looked like a grandma deciding on where she should go to the bathroom.”
“No, I did not,” I protest as he takes me inside his house. “Uh, my place is that way.”
“Yeah, and last time I checked, you didn’t have a working shower,” he says, once again right. It’s incredibly annoying.
But instead of taking me to the downstairs bathroom, he makes his way through the living room and starts heading up the stairs.
“Uh, I recall my shower being downstairs,” I say.
“Yeah, and I recall your shower not having a tub, and according to Abel, you should soak.”
Dammit, right again.
“Well, I don’t have my towel or my soap.”
“All things that are not nailed down to the bathroom,” he says in a dry tone, clearly annoyed with me.
I don’t bother arguing anymore because when he carries me into what I’m assuming is his room, I’m caught off guard with just how . . . not unpacked it is.
There are bed pieces stacked up against the wall off to the right, a mattress on the floor in the middle of the room, and unpacked boxes lined up under the window. But the room itself . . . gorgeous. Three square stained-glass windows are above the bed, offering light and creating a kaleidoscope of color against the opposite white walls. A window seat is the focal point of the room, covered in dark-stained wood but accented with light, creating an ethereal space where if I were the occupant of such room, I’d spend every waking moment there, especially since it looks out toward the large oak tree in the backyard. Just stunning.
Pushing forward, he moves us through a door and right into a large primary bathroom. The first thing I notice are the floors—penny-tiled marble without a stain in the grout, pristine, immaculate. Then there’s the rustic vanities with black hardware. The wood has dents and scratches, making it seem purposeful like the vanities have been passed on from generations.
Absolutely gorgeous.
He sets me down on the cool countertop, then walks over to the main piece of the bathroom—the large claw-foot tub.
Dear God.
“Wait here,” he says after examining the tub and leaving me alone to look around.
To dream about what it would be like to live in such a house. Never in my life have I ever seen anything like this. I come from very meek dwellings. Nothing so elegant or with so much charm. It’s so perfect. So beautiful. Something you’d see in a Pottery Barn magazine but never in real life.
When he comes back into the bathroom, he’s holding a bag of Epsom salts. But then he pauses and looks at me. “Do you have any open wounds on your legs?”
I glance down and barely have a second to see before he’s spreading my legs again and doing his own personal exam.
“You know, I can look myself.”
He just ignores me as his fingers lightly trail over my skin.
“Let’s not risk it.” He sets the salts down and starts the bath. “We need to clean your legs with some mild soap and then dry them well.”
“We?” I ask with a raise of my brow.
“Yeah, we.”
