I’ve had my hands there. My lips there—tongue and breath when I kissed down his body to pull him into my—

“Babe.”

Sucking in air through my nose, I blink up at CJ.

You’re staring, Riley. And he totally caught you.

“Bubbles,” I mumble.

His brows raise. “Say what?”

“Bubbles. We need bubbles.”

Bubbles camouflage things hiding under the water. They inhibit staring. We need lots of bubbles.

“We need bubbles,” CJ repeats, brows still raised, sounding like he doesn’t understand this necessity.

I straighten up and spin around, hands on my hips as I look at him. “They promote relaxation,” I explain, keeping my real reasoning to myself. “It’ll loosen you up, and help with the healing process. You’ll get better faster. Trust me.”

CJ’s stares at me, mouth ticking in the corner.

Please buy what I’m saying and just go with this, I think. I can’t imagine playing this out with clear, unobstructed viewing water. I need muscles and large organs concealed.

“Whatever you say, darlin’,” he finally gives me, and I feel my shoulders dip with relief.

Thank you, Jesus.

I look around the bathroom for what I need. Turning my head, my eyes fall to the collection of body washes on the seat in the shower.

I brought plenty. I like having a variety.

“Shower gel. That’ll work,” I say, mostly to myself as I move quickly to the glass door. I tug it open, grab the bottle of Mango Mandarin and carry it over to the tub, then I squeeze a copious amount into the running bath water—about half of the bottle—watching as the bubbles foam and spread across the surface.

They provide excellent coverage. I'm feeling good about this.

Sponge bath? No problem.

The tapping sound of CJ’s crutches alerts me of his nearing proximity. I feel the heat of him at my back.

“I'm going to need to sit down to get these shorts off and get them over my boot,” he shares. “Do you mind?”

I feel my eyes take up the majority of my face. Warmth blooms across my cheeks.

Okay . . . right. Right. He needs my help. CJ needs my help taking off his shorts.

Not a problem.

Straightening up and spinning around all in the same hurrying motion, as if I can’t wait to get to this task, I knock into CJ with my elbow and jar his balance. He stumbles back with a grunt and I reach out, gasping, gripping his slim hips with my hands as he hops on his good leg and plants his crutches again to regain his posture.

“Sorry!” I exclaim with panic in my voice. Shit! I am such an idiot! “Oh, my God. I am so sorry. Are you okay?” I look up into his face and watch the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Yeah,” he says with low laughter, brows lifting when he asks, “You? You seem a little . . .”

Flustered.

Horny.

Eager to disrobe.

“I'm great,” I rush out before he has the chance to throw out any of those suggestions. “Just, you know, ready to help any way I can.” I slide my hands to his warm abs and press my fingertips there, pausing for a pounding beat of my heart before finding the tied string on the front of his waistband. I watch his brows stay lifted as I tug and loosen. “What?” I ask, voice shaking with nerves.

Why is he looking at me like this?

He’s staring, his eyes softening and the amusement on his lips pulling away before he glances down at my hands. “I just needed you to slide over a bit so I can grab a seat,” CJ states, meeting my gaze again and offering me a kind smile. “I can get my shorts off, darlin'.”

My fingers tense around worn fibers. As if they’re scalding my skin, I hastily release the strings, pull my hands against my stomach and step back. “Cool,” I blurt out. “Yeah, okay. Good for you. You do that. I’ll . . . get you some towels.” Spinning around, I wince as I move quickly to the linen closet because oh, my God, he didn’t need any help taking off his shorts . . .

Seriously?

Good job, Riley. Strip a man against his will. Real professional.

The water sloshes behind me as I grab two white fluffy towels off the shelf.

“Jesus. You got enough bubbles in here?” CJ asks with laughter in his voice. “I’m going to smell like a goddamn fruit salad for the rest of my life.”

“Promotes healing, remember?” I remind him. “The more bubbles, the better.”

At least for me, anyway.

As I carry the towels over, set them down on the bath mat and snatch my loofah from the shower, CJ relaxes in the tub.

His head back, arms out of the water, bent and draped over the curved lip, and his left foot propped up on the opposite end, keeping his boot dry. I laugh when the bubbles reach his chin and stick to the stubble dotting his jaw.

Maybe I went a little overboard with the shower gel.

“Here.” Smiling, I claim a seat on the tiled edge, push my sleeve up to my elbow again and cut off the water. Then I swipe the bubbles away from CJ’s neck. Our eyes lock—his so close to mine . . . “Um,” I quickly lean away. “Do you want to sit up?” I ask. “I can start with your back.”

CJ smiles slowly, keeping my gaze as he leans forward. He slides his grip along the edge of the tub and bends his left knee so his boot turns on its side.

I dip the loofah into the water beside his hip, then I squeeze more of the shower gel onto it and work it into a lather.