He hooked an arm around my hips and stepped into the shower, placing me directly into the cold stream.
“Bowen!” I laughed.
“Smartass.” He turned us, putting his back to the water, and hugged me tight to his chest.
“You need a new water heater. Your water bill has to be insane letting it run this long. Maybe my inspector—”
He ducked to the side, allowing another cold spray, this one marginally warmer, to hit me in the chest.
“Okay. Okay. Learn to take a joke.”
He righted himself and grinned down at me. “Oh, I can take whatever you’ve got. I’d love to meet your family and friends. Though I might suggest you save yourself some time and take out a billboard to let your legions of admirers know how you are permanently off the market.”
I was freezing, with chill bumps pebbling my skin, but a wave of warmth I’d only ever felt with Bowen washed over me.
I slid my arms around his hips, hugging him tight. “That sounds expensive. But I’ll make sure word gets out. Maybe we can get two-for-one and announce the end of your bachelorhood at the same time.”
“I do love a bargain,” he murmured.
“My dad’s going to love you, you know. He is a nut but in the good way. Mark will grill you. He’s protective, but that’s the extent of the family you’ll have to meet. I don’t have a mom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The water had finally heated, so he scooted to the side and allowed me under the stream with him.
“It’s okay. She’s not dead or anything. She lives in Texas.”
After grabbing the bodywash, he squeezed some out onto a loofa and passed the soapy ball to me. He repeated the process with the soap but poured it onto his hand for himself.
“Texas, huh?” he asked absentmindedly.
As we both got busy on the lather-and-rinse routine, I did what I did best and kept rambling. “Yeah, I haven’t seen her in years. She cheated on my dad and then ran off with my high school Spanish teacher.”
“Damn,” he whispered, reaching for the shampoo. “That’s rough.”
For the most part, Bowen and I complemented each other well. He was more laid-back and quiet while I was a walking, talking tornado. I was well aware of how I could be a lot sometimes, but he was a great listener, engaging and mentally present. But—and yes, there was always a but—Bowen never really asked questions about me. I didn’t get the feeling he wasn’t interested in my past, but asking questions often meant having to answer them in turn. And while he wasn’t a particularly private person, he definitely had his own timeline of when and how he felt like opening up.
I respected that. More so, I respected him.
So, in order to circumvent his little “don’t ask therefore I don’t have to tell” mindset, I’d taken to spilling my life story to him whenever the mood struck.
Sometimes he’d just listen.
Sometimes it would spark an actual conversation he could relate to.
But every once in a while, the floodgates would open and he’d fill my ears with all things Bowen Michaels. Those nights were my favorite.
“Yeah, it was awful,” I added. “The whole school found out. Everyone turned on me. I hated my mom for a really long time because of it. At first when she’d left, she would call, send a card on my birthday, and she’d even sent a few Christmas gifts. But that was short-lived. She just kinda disappeared.”
He took the loofa from my hand, set it aside, and then pulled me to his front. His hands gripped my hips. “Then it was her loss, not yours.”
See? Attentive. Present. Supportive. But not a question.
I peered up at him, his loving honey-brown eyes staring down at me. “I don’t know. I kinda felt like I lost out a lot. I love my dad and he was always the absolute best, but I was a young girl, maturing into a woman. I really could have used a mom. My junior year in college, I flew out to Texas to see her. I didn’t tell Dad or Aaron or Mark. Part of me was embarrassed, I guess. The other part was nervous about how it would go. When I got to her house, a girl a few years younger than I was opened the door. I recognized her as one of Mr. Ruiz’s kids, which in and of itself was bad enough, but when I told her why I was there, she turned and yelled, ‘Mom!’ up the stairs.”
“What the fuck,” Bowen whispered.
“Yeah. Turns out they took his kids with them when they moved. All four of them. They still had a mom. Split time with her in the summer and holidays. But my mom, who had all but cast me aside after I’d decided to stay with my dad, had been raising them as her own. The whole house was covered in photographs. They had a massive family picture of the six of them hanging above the fireplace without a single image of me anywhere in sight.”
