Leaving wet footprints on the floor and dripping water as he disappeared into his bedroom, he whistled a tune that she recognized as “Honey Bee” by Blake Shelton. In a few minutes he returned, dressed in gray sweat bottoms and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. He carried a towel in one hand and a hairbrush in the other.

“Slide forward about a foot,” he said.

When she did, he settled in behind her, one long muscular leg on each side of her body. He towel-dried her hair and then massaged her scalp with his fingertips. Her body felt like a rag doll and yet every nerve was on high alert, wanting more, begging for his wonderful hands to touch them, also.

“Mmmm,” she murmured..

“Is it making it feel better?” he drawled.

Then he started brushing her hair and a whole new set of emotions surfaced. She was afraid to move an inch for fear she’d find out this was all a dream and she would wake up with a grinding hangover, or worse yet, in her lonely bed at home.

His hands grazed her cheeks as he pulled her damp hair back to run the brush through it. Then he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the side of her neck.

“We were going to talk,” she whispered.

“We are talkin’, darlin’. We’ll use words when necessary,” he said softly.