Never Been Kissed by Molly O'Keefe Page A

didn’t touch her unless she was unconscious wouldn’t lift her bodily into the tub, his hand centimeters from her breast, his other hand on her ass.
    Her ass!
    But he did.
    She hissed and her skin sizzled and his face creased with regret.
    “Too hot?”
    Without thinking she lifted her hand and sluiced it over the water, sending a wave at him, dousing his pants, the bottom hem of his gray shirt.
    For a moment he gaped at her. Internally, she was gaping too, at herself, but then she did it again. Harder. Soaking his shirt this time, the thin cotton clinging to the muscles of his stomach and chest. One of his arms.
    He smiled.
    “I’m mad at you, Brody. It’s nothing to smile about.”
    “Mad is better than depressed.”
    “What a stupid thing to say,” she muttered, surprised at herself. This was not her. Not any version she knew … or even sensed.
    He turned off the water and in the silence she felt the first hint of embarrassment.
    Brody had been nothing but kind. Honestly, very decent. Paid or not, that’s exactly what he’d been, decent.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
    “It’s okay.”
    “Depression and irrational anger are all part of the post-kidnapping process?”
    “With everything you’ve gone through, it’s to be expected.”
    “Is this … Have you done this before?” she asked, marginally comforted by his words. “With your job?”
    “My job is to keep people from getting kidnapped,” he said. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “My brother brought some salad.”
    “This brother of yours, he have a name?”
    “Oddly, no. Mom and Dad never named him.”
    That was a joke. Brody was joking with her. She was so shocked she couldn’t even react.
    “Sean,” Brody said quietly. “His name is Sean.”
    “What’s he like?”
    Brody was silent and she looked over her shoulder at him, where, after moving her sling, he sat on the closed toilet seat, brush in his hand, gray T-shirt turned black by water.
    “He’s a good guy.” He put down the brush and grabbed a bottle from the floor. “Tries hard.”
    “At what?”
    “Everything. I am going to brush your hair,” he said.
    “You should just cut it.”
    “You want me to cut it?”
    She was silent. What did it matter, really? The anger was popping, disappearing like the bubbles.
    “Come on, under.” He pressed a hand against her shoulder and she jerked sideways, away from the warmth of his touch, right into the cold enamel of the tub. She hissed.
    His silence made her feel stupid. Girlish. So she sunk herself into the water, holding her breath under the bubbles, feeling her hair float around her face.
    Using her toes against the far end of the tub she pushed herself back up, her hands carefully over her face. She could feel him move behind her, the heat of his breath against her shoulder, and she braced for his touch.
    But either it was amazingly light or her hair was so matted she couldn’t feel it.
    Until a sudden tug stung her scalp.
    “Sorry,” he murmured. She crossed her legs and slumpedforward, letting the bubbles cover her breasts, trying to give him as much access to her hair as she could. It wasn’t pleasant, imagining what he was seeing. The edge of the bruises and the cut on the back of her arm, the knobs of her spine.
    The pungent scent of fake flowers and too sweet vanilla filled the air and she felt something cold and slick on her head.
    “What is that?”
    “Conditioner. I found it with the bath soap. Should help with the tangles.”
    “What do you know about tangles?” She glanced back at him and his short black hair.
    “Believe it or not, Ashley, I have known women.”
    “And their hair products?”
    “Only their hair products, really. I’m strange that way.”
    “I don’t—” She shook her head, all turned around by this strange joking version of Brody. “You’re acting weird.”
    He was silent and the tension crept back into the room, which was good. Which was the way it should be between her