Page 21 of Rootbound
“No—sorry that my face—made a face! It looksfine. Great. Really good. Thank you,” I stammer. He plops the plate on my lap and the drink on the table in front of me before he sits on the end of the chaise.
I’ll wonder in a minute why he’s sitting so close to me, when I clearly exasperate him so, but for now the smell of melted cheese and buttery bread steals my focus. I’m shocked when I bite into it to find something sweet and tangy. I must wear that expression on my face, too, because before I can ask, he says, “Apples and cheddar. Mrs. Logan always made them that way.”
“It’s delicious, thank you.”
I wash it back with the drink, a whiskey and ginger ale number that warms me up from the inside. I have a swig after every bite, losing myself to the meal. The end comes too quickly, though, and I’m forced to look back up at Henry’s sour expression.
“Which side hurts and where?”
I roll my eyes and lean onto my side, exposing the one that’s pinched. A burp escapes me in the motion, but I’m either too sated or too immune to being embarrassed tonight to care.
“Sexy,” he says flatly. I lift my arm to pinpoint the area, then use my opposite hand to lift up my shirt to look at it.
An angry, reddish-purple bruise has already mottled the skin over the front of my ribs, but it’s the back that hurts. I roll onto my stomach to grant access to the area in question.
The awareness hasn’t dulled with the meal, so when he slides the hem of my shirt up a bit further, I feel the touch of his rough fingertips shoot right through me, my stomach somersaulting.
He gingerly prods at the area in question, eliciting an annoyed and muffled “Ow”from me.
“Nothing’s broken, but you’ve got a nasty bruise, and…” He chuckles softly, chuffing out a breath of air that hits my side. “… It’s in the shape of a perfect circle.”
“What? Let me see!”
“Not sure how to do that, unless you’re an owl and can turn your head all the way around,” he replies dryly.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
He gestures to the hallway, and I remember that our cabins are essentially the same layout. I’d only been here a handful of times as a kid, but it has definitely been updated since. He doesn’t offer more help than that, so I go off on my own. As soon as I open the door to the would-be hall bathroom (at least from what I recall at my place), Henry is up and behind me, his very large hand over mine, awkwardly taking the door handle. “Not that one, next one on the left,” he says gently.
His proximity throws me off again, close enough to see chest hair poking up from the neckline of his shirt, oddly obscene… and he’s so tall and warm, smelling like grilled cheese and something else that’s just… man and/or man soap and warm leather.Actualwarm leather, like the best books always say, and why is it alwayswarmleather? How is warmth encapsulated in a scent?
My musings are cut short when he turns around and heads back toward the living room. Mercurial might be an understatement with that one.
I get to the bathroom, flip on the light, and audibly gasp becauseohmygodit is the bathroom dreams are made of. The slate floors are heated under my feet, the room itself larger than my kitchen back home. A vanity with a sink dons either side, with there being a second arched door past the vanity on the right, and a built-in stocked with fluffytowels just past the one on the left. Straight ahead to the back are what appear to be large double sliding glass shower doors that lead to a slight step up and into a showerroom,with a massive freestanding tub inside the shower, toward the back. There are two large windows over the tub, no doubt looking out and over the pond. On the left wall there are multiple shower heads, one handheld and one rain head that looks like it’s big enough to wash an SUV. On the right side is a built-in bench. I suppose you’d end up spending so much time in there that you’d like a place to sit down.
I’m not sure how long I gawk, running my hands over the marble slab walls in the shower room (yes, I let myself in), but it must’ve been awhile because Henry stomps in, irritation written all over his face. I opt for honesty again.
“I don’t even remember what I came in here for, but I’m having an out-of-body experience in this bathroom,” I tell him. His hands go on his hips and he spares me another one of his exasperated looks.
“Do you even appreciate all this?” flies out of me, incredulous.
“What?”
“I mean it—there’s no body wash or anything in here. I assume you shower?”
“I use mine, in my room. I’m sorry ifyourfacilities aren’t up to your standards, though.”
It takes me a minute to process what he says, but I snap a little more, then.
“You really assume I’m some kind of snob, don’t you? You’re taking a compliment and reading into it as some kind of complaint or comparison, whenit’s not.”
“You’re the one who asked me if I even appreciated it, Tait.”
True. I did do that, so I hedge, “You just did it over a facial expression not fifteen minutes ago, though. You’re the one who tackled me in the woods, in the dark, and told me to come here, yet you’re continuing to act likeI’mup to something.”
He sighs, and I see thoughts processing on his face. He seems to struggle with something, grasps it, and then finally spits out, “I’m sorry.”
Realizing that I’ve been talking to him from his shower, I mournfully step out. This puts me back at an even greater height disadvantage, so I’m forced to look up at him.