“Come on, Little Thief. Pee, pee, pee. When you feel the need, you’ve got to pee, pee, pee.”
“Zander, I’m twenty-six years old. I don’t need a pee song!” she cried, exasperated.
“Just relax your muscles and pee, pee, pee,” he continued on, his face serious.
Okay, this was just ridiculous.
And then she felt it. She was peeing. She covered her sore face with her hands as humiliation flooded her.
Along with relief.
So much damn relief.
She almost felt euphoric. As though she’d climbed a mountain or had solved some complicated math problem.
Yes, she liked math. She was weird like that.
When she was finished, she sat there for a moment. She could tell he was still there. She could feel him, even though he wasn’t technically touching her.
There was no ignoring him. She’d like to see someone try.
“Do you need help—”
“If you ask me if I need help wiping, then I am going to have to hurt you.”
“Seems like an over-reaction, but I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
He could? She had seen little sign of that. But she felt him move away. Without looking at him, she opened her eyes and cleaned herself up.
Then she had another issue. Because if she couldn’t get off the bed, then she really couldn’t get off the toilet.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
She let out a sigh.
“Well?” she finally asked.
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to offer to help me?”
“A man can only get rejected so many times.”
She peered up at him. “Are you teasing me?”
“I rarely tease.”
Yeah. Somehow, she wasn’t so sure.
“Could you please help me off the toilet without peeking?” she reluctantly asked.
“Peeking?”
“Yes, peeking. No peeking.”
“At what?”
“At me!” Lord, he was killing her. How had he survived this long without someone putting a pillow over his face in his sleep? That Honey chick had to be a saint. Although she didn’t strike Keira as anything close to a saint.