Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Esme

Sagan moves us into the en suite bathroom and gently sets me down on the pink tufted stool while he turns on the water.

Presumably, he’s warming it up for me, but all I can think about is that I’m embarrassed about the pinkness of it all. I’ve meant to redecorate this room, which still contains all the trappings of a spoiled little princess, with pink and white furniture.

I quickly forget the embarrassment when I realize he’s talking to me.

“What are you on?”

It takes me a moment to register that.

“On?”

I blink up at him. I’m not sure what he means.

Steam begins to fill the room.

Something new settles in my chest. The dark clouds are still here, but I feel less like hating myself because of them.

Sagan’s voice is gentle as he takes my hand and helps me to my feet again. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’ll sort it out later.”

I say nothing, and he turns me around to face the wall.

“Arms up.”

I don’t even question it. This is bananas. Why am I not questioning it?

I raise my arms, and Sagan peels my T-shirt off. Oh god. I can smell myself.

I. Am. Ripe.

Never mind the pink princess bathroom. This is a thousand times more embarrassing.

I knew I hadn’t showered in days, but that was only my business until about five minutes ago. If I’m disgusting, he doesn’t comment on it.

Sagan’s hands reach around my middle, and his thumbs dip inside the elastic waistband of my leggings. I should be humiliated by the way my clothes and body smell like 10-day-old laundry.

But there is something clinical about this. He’s done this before.

I hold my breath as he shoves down my leggings and underwear in one quick move, then says, “Reach back and hold onto me.”

I do as he says. I have no will to do anything else.

“Good, now lean on me and step out of your leggings.”

When I do, he says “good girl” again, and I don’t have the will to put him in his place with a speech about how I’m a grown woman, dammit.

Sagan tosses my leggings and T-shirt in the corner. Frye is going to have a shit fit about dirty clothes being left on the floor, and I almost find the will to laugh.

Then again, Frye will never know, because he’s afraid of heights. The housekeeper could tell him, but why would she? They all work for me, so what is the dynamic between the old man and me? He runs my house while I shut everyone out. And how do I repay him for decades of loyal service? By letting the house crumble under my feet?

I’m not a good girl. I’m a horrible person.

The speaker on the wall makes a scratchy static sound, and then I hear Frye’s voice.

“Ms. Bryant, there is a young man upstairs, he’s there to look at the chimney. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Took him long enough.

With my hands still on Sagan’s shoulder, I reached for the button on the wall.

“OK,” I push out.

“Please tell him to get me a quote as soon as possible.”

A quote? It’s not the house manager’s job to get quotes from contractors. But then again, this is Frye’s passive-aggressive way of telling me he’s doing my job.

Little does he realize Sagan is not a contractor.

I push the button again, but this time, Sagan leans forward, his flannel shirt brushing against the bare skin of my side.

“Yeah, there’s more damage up here than originally explained to me. I should be able to work up a quote in about an hour.”

I’m naked in the bathroom with a near-stranger who is bald-faced lying to a loyal staff member who has looked after me and this house for decades.

But I’m not doing anything to contradict this lie.

“Ms. Bryant, shall I send someone up to wait with you?”

That’s Frye’s way of being protective while not being rude to a contractor.

My brain buffers as I try to think of what to say. Sagan is still next to me, my hand on his shoulder. He turns his face to mine. He’s so close I can smell his sweat. What had he been up to before he found his way into my house?

I know I have to answer, or Frye will call the police. As he should, probably.

I muster everything in me and push the button again. “No, I’m just waiting for him to finish inspecting the wall behind the fireplace so I can have my shower.”

I know that’ll throw him off. It works like a charm. He replies with, “Wonderful. I’ll have Dorit lay out a fresh outfit for you.”

“No need to send the housekeeper. I’ll figure something out.”

As expected, Frye is overjoyed that I am up and about and making those tough decisions again, like what pants to wear.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says breezily.

Leave me to what?

Unless it is a wild coincidence, I don’t think that Sagan is actually a chimney contractor as well as a tattoo artist.

The man next to me looks away, and I feel empty. It feels strange that I want his eyes on me. I want the softness and strength touching me at all times.

See? This is what happens when the prospect of sex is not all that distant.

The glass door opens and more steam pours from the intricately tiled shower stall. Sagan then takes my free hand in his, my other hand still perched on his shoulder.

This is what I agreed to.

I step in, and I let the hot water run over me.

My hand does not want to let go of that ham-hock shoulder.

Sagan does not seem bothered or frustrated with me despite my helplessness. He is a revelation.

I let my hand drop, give him an apologetic expression, and then turn away, leaning my forehead against the tile.

I wait for the sound of the shower door closing, but it doesn’t come.

Turning my head slightly, I see out of the corner of my eye Sagan unbuttoning his shirt.

I should probably start screaming at this point. When will I start screaming about this man in my bathroom, peeling off his flannel, tugging off the T-shirt underneath, and tossing it into the pile in the corner?

But I don’t scream. Instead, I’m transfixed as he unzips his jeans next.

Holding my breath, I turn away and notice the sound of the metal belt buckle loosening and then hitting the floor.

The shower door only closes when Sagan steps into the shower with me.

That leathery scent surrounds me, even in the steam filling my lungs.

Sagan stands behind me, and the next thing I know, his hands are swishing water through my hair, stroking me from my forehead, back to the crown, down to the ends of my locks, thoroughly wetting it.

I lean back and let those thick, strong fingers that gave me my first tattoo massage my scalp.

He mutters something about the bottles, reading labels. “This will do.”

A plastic top pops open. He squirts a dollop into his palm and then closes the top again. I close my eyes. I’m pretty sure this is a dream, or nightmare.

Sagan is surprisingly adept at this. He gently works the shampoo through my hair, rubbing it into my scalp and working it down to the ends.

The slickness of the conditioner puts inappropriate thoughts into my head.

I’ve let my guard down, and now I’m thinking about his abs, and other things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about while I’m not functioning at a hundred percent.

What if I just turned around and felt him skin-to-skin? I suspect those slick hands would know exactly what to do with me.

And I would let him have his way with me completely.

Sagan wraps his fist around my hair, wringing it out.

The gentle pull makes my scalp tingle. He’s waking up more than my mind.

I turn and peek at him over my shoulder.

I briefly glimpse a rigid, tanned trapezius muscle before he says, “Face forward.”

I do as he says, mostly because I’m now 90% sure this isn’t sexual. At least not for him. I haven’t showered in days. Hell, I can’t even remember if I brushed my teeth last night or even yesterday morning. No, he’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart. Sure, it might be the weirdest thing a friend has ever done for me. But I am unwilling to call him out on that.

“Can you wash yourself?”

The deep voice rumbles close to my ear, making my brain buffer.

When I take too long to answer, Sagan grabs the soap.

I brace myself for what comes next, because there’s literally nothing I can force myself to do about it.

I don’t think I want to.