Page 57 of Seven Summers Ago
A shiver races down my back at the reminder. Crossing my arms, I rub my palms over them. “But not in a long time. And not since I was pregnant. Or had the surgery. My body…my bits…have changed. And I have scars.”
He bends his six-foot frame to try to encourage me to look at him. But I can’t. Not when it’s me and him and we’re having this conversation in this intimate space. I draw in a breath as the steam billows around us. “We all have scars, Rosie. Some just aren’t visible. And scars don’t make someone less beautiful. If anything, it does the opposite. Because it means you’ve lived. You’re still living.”
“Yeah, tell that to my brain,” I mutter, and flip my wrist. “Now, if you want to stay in here and help, then close your eyes.”
“Fine,” he huffs, pinching his eyes tight with exaggeration. “But I hate to point out the obvious once again?—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve seen me naked before,” I grumble, interrupting him and taking his hands in mine.
“No. I mean yes. But I was gonna say, you’re my wife.”
“Oh.” My stomach flutters at his words. And now I’m fumbling with his hands as I guide them to the hem of my sweatshirt with his eyes closed. “Okay, here. Now lift slowly,” I whisper.
He listens to my command, grasping the hem of my sweatshirt on both sides and gliding it up my body with care.“This guy—your fiancé—he’s never…he’s never made you feel like your scars…are…I don’t know, a big deal, right?”
“What? No.” My brows shoot up and his eyes flutter open. “Beck!” I warn with a shriek.
“Shit. Sorry, sorry,” he mutters and pinches his eyes closed again. “And good. That’s good. I just…I wanted to make sure.” He drags my sweatshirt the rest of the way up my torso. His fingers brush against my bare skin and a shiver wriggles through me.
“West…West isn’t like that.” My words are unintentionally laced with doubt, because he has made me feeling self-conscious about them.
“That’s good.” He tugs the sweatshirt over my head slowly.
I hold my breath until I have eyes on him once again and can ensure he’s not peeking. “Can you just help with the clasp on my bra? Then I should be good.”
He pulls his lower lip in between his teeth and bites on it, giving a slight nod with his chin.
I steal a second to admire his face while he can’t see me. His dimpled chin covered by a three-day beard is something I’ve missed. As my gaze travels up to the mustache taking shape above his lip, I rub my thighs together.
“Ready?”
I spin around, facing my back to him. “Yep,” I croak. And now my eyes are closed as I await his hands on me.
Warm fingers trace my skin before they work at the clasp of my bra. “Because if he’s ever made you feel less-than because of your illness or your body?—”
“Beck,” I interrupt, catching his darkened eyes in the reflection of the mirror. He holds my gaze captive for a moment, a look of defiance staring back at me. My bra comes undone and my breasts release when it falls to the floor.
He shuts his eyes and takes a step away from me. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
I slide my pants and my underwear down my legs at the same time. The quicker I get my clothes off the quicker I can get in the tub without him seeing me naked. I step over the ledge and into the steaming tub. It’s almost too hot to get all the way under, but I don’t have time to allow my body to get accustomed to the temp first. I lower myself beneath the bubbles, ensuring they’re covering my chest fully.
“Okay, I’m in,” I announce.
He turns slowly and when his gaze travels across the bubbles, lingering over my chest and my neck before finally landing on my face, I can’t resist locking eyes with him again. Heat flares in his pupils and his jaw clicks. It’s like a lit match between us, the fire burning brighter than it ever has before. We’ve spent seven years apart, and yet, in this moment, time and distance disappear and we’re Beck and Rosie again. It makes zero sense.
His tongue darts out and he licks his lips, and I track every one of his movements. Including his palms as he wipes them down the fronts of his pants.
I tear my gaze away first. Shit, one of us has to before we say something we’ll both regret. Or worse—dosomething we’ll both regret.
He shouldn’t even be in here with me while I’m in the tub. What would West think? Would I think it was appropriate for West to be in this situation if our roles were reversed? Absolutely not. But Beck isn’t a random guy. He’stheguy. And maybe that’s more of a reason for him to not be here right now.
He clears his throat. “Um, do you need anything else?”
“No, I’m okay, thanks. You don’t have to wait with me.”
“Uhh…” He drags out the word, his tone uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the closed bathroom door. “Do you want me to go?”
Nois what I want to scream. I don’t want him to go. He used to be my favorite person to be with when I was in pain. No one else brought me comfort like he did.
