I lifted my phone to call her to ask if she was okay, stutter be damned, when headlights slashed across my wet street through the deluge. I yanked open the front door, ran to her, and pressed my lips to hers as the pounding rain soaked us…
In my head.
In reality I stood gripping the doorknob, swearing under my breath that I lacked the balls to do that whole Nicholas Sparks scene in my head. Yes, I knew who Nicholas Sparks was. I wasn’t a total dick.
Tasha parked and darted across the driveway, her bag held over her head. She stepped around me and into the threshold as lightning split the sky. The day had been warm, still was warm, the rain creating more humidity rather than cooling it down.
I shut the door and took her dripping bag out of her hand as Tasha pushed her hair over her shoulders, splattering my shirt with rainwater.
“Wow. So, it’s raining.” She gave me a nervous smile as she swiped the hollows of her eyes.
Was she nervous because I knew she was no longer on the clock? Or maybe she was nervous because she knew I wanted to attack her and have her pliant and moaning against me.
“Is your dad at work?” she asked, her eyes darting around the house.
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice. And now that I thought about it, maybe I should have warmed up with a couple of vocal exercises before she got here. I should’ve practiced a few of those sounds while looking in the mirror to see if I looked as stupid as I thought I might.
“I hope he doesn’t get caught in the storm.” She sent a worried look out the window and I realized I’d have to tell her sometime.
“Ow—” I started, then closed my eyes and pulled in a breath. “Out of town.”
Paul had gone to see a client in Michigan. Or so he said. He’d been sneaky lately, spending more time out of the house than here. I couldn’t help wondering if there was an underlying reason for his absence other than Veri-tech’s quarterly taxes.
Once she’d inventoried what she could see of the empty house, those blues landed on mine. Then a specific brand of calm curled inside my chest. I didn’t trust that sensation, but it only happened with Tasha, and only happened recently. I liked the way it felt far too much to question it.
“Drink?” I asked. No stutter. Nice.
Maybe if I viewed this as a game, it’d be fun. I mentally chalked one point into the “Me” column.
“No, thanks. I mean, I don’t know. I’m not sure how long I’m staying. I’m not sure why I texted you.” She frowned and so did I. I didn’t like that she didn’t know why she’d texted me. Not that I expected her to say she missed me, but it would’ve been nice to hear.
“I had a crappy day at school. I guess I needed someone to talk to.” Her shoulders drooped in defeat.
A laugh shook my chest. I couldn’t help myself. She wanted to talk so she came to the guy who didn’t? Not much struck me as funny, but that irony did.
Catching on that I was laughing with, not at, her, she grinned up at me. She was dripping wet and damn beautiful. Watching the water pool at her feet made my imagination go wild. I pictured her in the shower, those rivulets running down her bare breasts instead of into the neck of her shirt.
I dropped her bag on the rug by the door, took her hand, and led her to a half bath bisecting the foyer. Inside, I pulled a towel out of the closet and unfolded it. She held out a hand that I ignored. Dropping the terry cloth on top of her head, I began to scrub.
“No,” came her muffled voice from under the towel. Her hands came out to stop mine. “I have fine hair and you’re tangling it.”
I removed the towel and she carefully tried to arrange her hair. Rather than scrub vigorously, she ran her fingers through the strands and squeezed the water out with the towel. Watching her move had me in a trance. The way her fingers gingerly separated the knots. The way she bent to slide the towel down her bare legs and arms.
I was transfixed.
“Since I’m here, I guess we could have our session tonight instead of next week.”
Her pragmatism and her work-as-usual attitude snapped me out of the sensual fantasy of her in my shower. I willed my thoughts back to the kiss at the museum, the way she clung to me as I slid my tongue along hers.
With my dad out for the weekend, we had the house to ourselves. I figured we could do another kind of therapy while we were at it. The lyrics to Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” tumbled through my brain and I shook my head, having no idea where or when I had heard that song.
Then I remembered. And frowned. Brooke played it once.
“I have my speech books with me,” Tasha said. “And the straws. If I can talk you into trying things my way.”
“We d-did them yuh-your way.” Crap. Two points for the stutter demon.
She either didn’t care or didn’t notice. Okay, she probably noticed, and probably cared only from the standpoint of wanting to help me. The interesting thing was that whenever I tried to be a silver-tongued fox again, she missed the attempt. It would be nice if I could get a positive response from a girl the way I was now. Getting a response from this girl would be the best.