Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 204(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 204(@200wpm)___ 163(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
I yank my eyes away, but not before he notices where I was looking and snickers loudly.
“Like what you see?” he asks cockily.
I’ll blame the flush of my cheeks on the hot water.
“No time for funny business, though,” he says, much to my surprise. “We’re here to get a job done.”
Since when?
But then, heart sinking, I realize that I’m not the only one who’s noticed the changes around here. Logan really isn’t attracted to me anymore, is he?
I mean, he just tore off all my clothes, handled my naked body, and all he wants to do is…bathe me?
Oh gods, I must smell. That has to be it. He leaned in a little too close and got a whiff of Hermit Daphne’s body funk. It was just one day I skipped my bath and it’s not like I get that sweaty just sleeping, I didn’t think that it would matter that much—
But Logan’s already picked up a washrag and he’s going to work with the efficiency of a practiced home care nurse. Washing underneath my arms. My feet. My back.
Because he’s a loyal caretaker.
My head drops forward.
“Keep your head like that, I’m going to rinse your hair now.”
Can I please sink down through all the floors of the castle into the belly of the earth and disappear now?
I keep my eyes squeezed shut and my mouth closed as Logan washes my hair, not even able to enjoy the sensation of his hands against my scalp, which is usually a highlight.
But unlike normal, he doesn’t spend any extra time lathering my breasts and he barely skirts a fresh washrag between my legs before he’s pulling the plug and letting all the water out.
Bathtime’s over.
He didn’t even get all the way in with me. He washed me from the outside of the tub, never even taking off his pants. And he’s wearing nice ones like always.
He helps me out of the bath and towels me off with as much ruthless efficiency as he washed me. Apparently talking is overrated, too, because he doesn’t say two words, even as he wraps me in my favorite fluffy purple robe.
He’s not even trying to pretend this isn’t our new normal anymore. Doctor and patient.
“I’m tired,” I murmur. “I think I’ll go back to bed now.”
“What?” Logan asks with alarm he tugs on a crisp, white shirt and starts to button it. “But now we can go down for lunch.”
I sigh. “I really don’t feel up for it. Can’t you just bring me up a plate later?”
His eyebrows drop low, signaling his alarm. “No, I can’t just bring it up later. I worked hard putting together the meal. For you. You need to be there.”
Extra long sigh. Why are we even pretending anymore? I’m too tired for any of this.
But Logan suddenly pulls me forward into his arms and presses a hard kiss against my forehead. “We are going to be okay, you and me. And that starts today. Please,” he whispers, “come downstairs. I know I fuck things up sometimes. But I want to make it better. I love you.”
His words split my hard façade straight down the middle and I start to shake.
No. I have to be strong. I can’t let myself get pulled in by beautiful words because the next disappointment will only hurt that much more.
And yet still, I nod when he holds out his arms for me. He ignores any uncertainty and helps me pull on a yellow sundress over my head. I’m surprised he bothers because I’ve barely worn anything other than a robe or PJs since coming home from the hospital. But maybe he thinks getting dressed will brighten my mood. Fat chance. Still, it does feel nice as he combs out my long, dark hair.
And afterwards, when he sweeps me up in his arms and carries me downstairs, I sink against his chest. I lean my head on his shoulder and listen to the comforting thump thump thump of his heart by my ear.
Why can’t things always be simple like this? I close my eyes and luxuriate in the feeling of his strong, protective arms around me. I miss the pretending. I miss the illusion that he could love me more than anything else and the idea that he would fight anything, even his lesser nature, because of that love.
But maybe that was always a fairytale. And maybe I should learn how to be happy with what I have, because even if it’s not perfect, it’s still pretty damn amazing. I’m not perfect. Why should I expect him to be?
I nuzzle my face in that spot I love between his neck and shoulder and inhale. I’m just so mixed up about everything. I don’t know which emotions to trust anymore. I wish there was someone to talk to about all this, someone who could help me see clearly and make sense of things—