Page 146 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
Hunter chuckled. “You’d better hurry or we’re going to be late.”
I swatted his arm. “If we’re late, it’s your fault. You interrupted my shower, Dr. Faraday.”
“Are you really complaining, Blondie? Because I’m pretty sure your pussy is glad the doctor showed up.”
I pulled my lips in to hide a smile, then I smacked his ass and stepped past him to get my shampoo.
He laughed again and took the bottle out of my hand, just as I’d expected. One thing Hunter always did during our dirty showers was wash my hair. And then I’d wash his.
It was a simple gesture, washing each other’s hair, but it meant everything to me.
It was the care Hunter took with me. It was the way his fingertips would dig in a little, rubbing any tension away. The way he’d bend down and kiss my shoulder when I was all lathered up. The way he’d tip me back under the water, supporting my weight with one strong arm as the other kept the water from running into my eyes.
And for all the care he gave me, I gave it right back.
I’d worship his hair, combing it out gently with my fingers before rinsing it clean. All these years and I was still as obsessed with Hunter’s hair as I’d been the first day he walked into the inn’s lobby.
We washed and finished our ritual before Hunter left the shower to get ready for the party. I rushed to shave my legs, miraculously not leaving any nicks, then dashed out to spend a little extra time—not as much as I had planned—in front of the bathroom mirror on my hair and makeup.
I tugged on jeans, a nice black sweater and a scarf to cover up Hunter’s love bite. With my knee-high boots pulled over my dark-wash skinnies, I did one last inspection in the full-length mirror in our walk-in closet before leaving the bedroom in search of my family.
I found Coby in his room with Grayson, right where I’d left them for their mandatory hour of “quiet time,” since both were too old to nap these days.
Grayson was on Coby’s bunk, watching something on his tablet. Coby had his nose in a book. While reading still wasn’t my favorite pastime, it had become Coby’s latest obsession. He and Hunter had bonded over the first Harry Potter and now my son was rarely seen without a book or two under his arm.
“Okay, boys. You need to get dressed to go.”
“We are dressed, Mom,” Coby said, not tearing his eyes away from his book.
“Bud, it’s too cold for shorts. Would you please put on some jeans or something?”
He frowned and set down his book, then climbed down the stairs from the top bunk. Even at eleven years old, Coby still loved his bunk. It was a little more cramped on top than it used to be, but when Hunter had offered to take it down, Coby had adamantly refused.
It was his special space.
And Pickle’s, who was currently napping in the corner next to Grayson.
“Gray, you too. Climb on down from there.”
My youngest son nodded, rubbed Pickle’s ear and set down his iPad.
I ruffled his light brown hair when he hopped off the last step. It was too long, but when I’d tried to have it cut, he’d refused. Grayson was in a phase where he did everything his dad did. And since Dad had long hair, he had long hair. If he could have grown a beard, he would have.
“Do I have to change, Mom?” Grayson asked. He looked so much like Hunter except for his eyes—he’d gotten them from me.
“No, you’re good.” He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved thermal, just like Hunter had been earlier. The minute we’d gotten home from our family sledding expedition today, he’d changed to match his dad. I had no idea why Coby had traded his warm clothes for shorts, considering it was barely above freezing outside. “Go grab your shoes, bubba.”
“Okay.” Grayson ran out of Coby’s room toward his own down the hall.
“Mom, do you think Dad would take me shopping for a new book tomorrow?”
“I’m sure he would if you asked. Now get dressed.” I stepped out so Coby could have some privacy to change and then continued on toward Layla’s room. My three-year-old daughter was resting on Hunter’s chest, rubbing her eyes and yawning, still groggy from her nap.
I crossed the room to the white rocking chair and pressed a kiss to her white-blond hair. “Did you have a good nap?”
She nodded and curled further into Hunter.
While five-year-old Grayson took after Hunter, Layla took after me. We had the same eyes and hair. The same shape to our face. The only difference was the shape of her nose, which was more like my mom’s than mine. When the three of us were out together, there was no mistaking her gene pool.
