Captain Dreamboat (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 7) Page 7

  Blanka stoops down to peer at it. A low rumble echoes under the end table, and it takes me a second to realize it’s purring. “It wandered into your house, and you fed it?”

  “I thought it might be hungry.”

  We both stare at the cat, whose plump belly nearly covers its oversized hind feet. He looks like hell, but the thing must weigh twenty pounds.

  “Seems pretty well-fed to me,” Blanka observes.

  “I thought if I bribed him with food, I’d have a better shot at catching him so I can take him to the vet.”

  Blanka draws her eyes off the cat and studies me for a moment. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, but I can’t help feeling judged. I straighten in my chair, wincing at the twinge beneath the surgical site.

  “When’s the last time you took your pain medicine?” she asks.

  Damn. She doesn’t miss anything.

  “A few hours,” I admit. “I’m supposed to take it with food.”

  My stomach gives a loud growl. From under the end table, the cat growls back.

  “Let’s get you fed,” Blanka says.

  She gets to work setting up plates and napkins and forks, quick and confident in her movements. I want to help, but I suspect she’d body-slam me back into the chair if I tried to get up.

  “Man, that smells good. Thank you.”

  “Here you go.” She scoops a giant pile of pillowy dumplings onto a plate and hands it to me. “My grandmother used to make these. It’s an old family recipe.”

  “These look amazing.”

  “They are,” she says as she slides into the chair beside me. “Hurry up and eat before you faint or something.”

  I do what she says, spearing a fat dumpling with the tines of my fork. Steam billows out, along with a dribble of cheese and smooshed potato. I shove the whole thing in my mouth, not caring if I burn my tongue. That’s how hungry I am.

  “Holy cow.” I groan around a mouthful of dumpling. “This is insanely good. Seriously, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “You have a brother who’s a Michelin starred chef.”

  “Don’t tell him,” I say as I spear another— “What did you call these things again?”

  I should quit talking with my mouth full, but I can’t stop eating. Can’t stop looking at Blanka, either, but only one of those things is rude. I think.

  “Vareniki.” She says it with the faintest hint of an accent, which is sexy as hell. So is the way she eats with gusto, loving the meal as much as I do.

  She finishes chewing, then points her fork toward the cat. “Are you planning to keep him?”

  I shake my head and stab another dumpling. “I won’t be around long enough to have a pet. But I’ll get him fixed up and find him a good home.”

  “Hmm.” There’s that sound again, and I’ll be damned if I know what it means. It’s like she’s assessing me or something, which might just be the scientist in her. “The cat appears to be polydactyl.”

  “Poly what—Oh, you mean his paws?” I fork up another bite of dumpling. “I noticed that. He must have two or three extra toes on each foot.”

  “Also called a Hemingway cat,” she says thoughtfully. “Or a Hemingway polydactyl.”

  “As in Ernest?”

  “Yes.” She cuts into a particularly plump dumpling, spearing half of it onto the tines of her fork. “They were originally bred to live on ships. The larger paws give them superior balance and hunting abilities.”

  “No kidding?” I glance back at the cat. “We have something in common. Except I don’t eat mice.”

  I might have if Blanka hadn’t shown up with food. God, this is good. I should probably grab a glass of water so I don’t choke. But first—

  “The cat needs water.” I start to stand, but Blanka puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll get it.” She moves to my kitchen like she owns the place, locating a bowl on her first try at opening cupboards. She fills it from the tap, then returns to the living room and sets it beside the plate. The cat gives her an adoring look before starting to drink.

  “I should get him to a vet.” I glance at my watch. “I wonder if I could find one that’s still open.”

  Blanka turns back to me and frowns. “You should eat your damn lunch.”

  Her vehemence surprises me. And turns me on a little, if I’m being honest.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I throw her a mock salute, then pick up my fork. I’m down to my last three dumplings, but I definitely saw more in that dish. Would it be rude to ask for seconds?

  Blanka’s quiet a long time, studying the cat. I glance back at him. He’s actually kind of cute in a homely way.

  “May I share an observation?” Blanka asks suddenly.

  I nod and swallow. “About the cat?”

  “About you.”

  I reach for the water glass that’s magically appeared beside my plate. When did she grab that? I take a big gulp and nod. “Go right ahead.”

  “You were starving,” she says. “You said so yourself. Yet you fed the cat—a stray cat you don’t know—before taking care of your own needs.”

  I set the glass down and shrug. “It’s not like I was ready to drop dead or anything.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “You just had major surgery. You need to take care of yourself.”

  I spear the last Vareniki onto my fork and grin. “And I am. Thank you.”

  She shakes her head and scoops another big helping of dumplings onto my plate. I could kiss her.

  Before I can embarrass myself by attempting it, she gets up and disappears down the hall. Moments later, she reappears with a handful of pill bottles that Gary must have stashed in the bathroom.

  “I wasn’t sure which one you needed, so I brought them all.”

  “Thank you.” I grab what I need and swallow it down with water.

  “My observation is about you,” she says, picking up where she left off. “You’ve been on airplanes, of course.”

  Huh? “Of course,” I agree, not sure where this is going.

  “There’s that line in the announcements—a statement about putting on your own oxygen mask before helping others. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Sure,” I say, wary. “It’s about putting masks on children.”

  She gives me a pointed look, blue eyes piercing through me. “It’s about taking care of yourself,” she says slowly. “Making sure your needs are met so you’re able to be useful to other people.”

  Huh. I never considered that.

  “That is my goal in life,” I admit.

  “To be useful to other people?”

  “To be of service,” I say. “To help others.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” It occurs to me that no one’s ever asked that. “Because I grew up wealthy,” I say slowly. “The privilege I had, I don’t take that for granted.”

  “I see,” she says, and I wonder if she does. If she knows that’s not the whole story.

  “I want to give back,” I continue. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  She’s watching my face, hands folded on the table. I’m exposed and vulnerable, stripped to a threadbare hospital gown even though I’m in jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “It’s admirable, what you do,” she says at last.

  “Thank you.”

  Blanka gets up and refills my water glass without being asked. “You don’t have to do that,” I call.

  She doesn’t respond. Just sits back down and looks at me. “Do you practice self-care?”

  “Self-care?” I watch her face, wondering if this is some kind of dirty joke. “What do you mean?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of self-care?” She takes a sip from her own water glass, eyes never leaving my face.

  “You’re talking about getting manicures or something?”

  She sighs and sets down her glass. “That’s an oversimplification of the term, but yes. That would be one form of self-care. It’s really anything that give
s you pleasure.”

  I can think of several things off the top of my head that would give me pleasure, but I’m not saying any of them aloud.

  Blanka hears me anyway. “Yes, even that. Sex can be a form of self-care. Or masturbation.”

  Holy shit. Are we having this conversation?

  “Don’t look so scandalized,” she says. “These are basic, biological functions. I’m a scientist.”

  “A hydrology researcher,” I point out like an idiot. “I wasn’t braced for you to go from manicures to jackin’ the beanstalk.”

  “I’ll consider more foreplay next time.” She spears another dumpling. “Sexual gratification aside, I’m talking about other things. Napping. Meditation. Reading a good book. Taking a bath. Going for a walk. There are all kinds of things you can do to treat yourself. To practice self-care and make sure your body and mind are rested and restored.”

  “Huh.” Gotta admit, she has a point. “What if helping others is what revs me up?”

  “I’m not talking about revving you up,” she says. “I’m talking about winding down. You need both.” She stares at me for a long, long time. “Don’t you ever do something just for you?”

  My brain flashes on our first kiss. How selfish it was to pull her to me, to kiss her without any thought to what Isabella was going through or what other patients might think.

  To kiss her because I desperately, urgently wanted to.

  Blanka watches my face, blue eyes fixed on mine. I swear she’s looking right through me, seeing the pictures flashing in my brain like naughty centerfolds.

  There’s a flicker of heat in her eyes, and I realize she’s thinking the same thing. About the kiss in the hallway. Or the second one in my hospital room. I’m not imagining this, right?

  She licks her lips, eyes still fixed on me. “A bath,” she says.

  I blink. “What?”

  “A bath.” She looks deep into my eyes. “That’s self-care. It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  I stare at her, afraid to say the wrong thing. “It does.” I hesitate. “Maybe after I take the cat to the vet and finish a reference letter for my sister and—”

  “No, now.” She smiles again, eyes still filled with heat. “If I join you, will you agree to take a bath? To relax.”

  There is nothing at all relaxing about the thought of being naked in a tub with Blanka. My body responds to the huskiness of her voice, the suggestion in her eyes. If there was any question about kidney donation affecting a guy’s ability to rise to the occasion, my libido is shouting a firm answer.

  “Yes,” I manage to croak. “A bath sounds good.” I clear my throat, hoping I haven’t heard wrong. “Together.”

  “Perfect.” She stands up and gives me a smile that’s full of promise. “Let’s do it.”

  She reaches between her breasts and unfastens a button. Then another. And another. And another.

  My jaw drops as she parts the flannel shirt to reveal a fitted pink spaghetti-strap top with a lacy fringe around the neckline. I don’t know if it’s lingerie or just a tank top, but it is now my favorite garment in the history of clothing.

  I’m still gawking like a moron, still sitting there with my mouth hanging open when she shrugs the button-down off her shoulders and hands it to me.

  “I’ll start the water.”

  Then she turns and walks down the hall.

  Chapter 6

  Blanka

  I can’t believe I did that.

  The striptease, the suggestive offer…none of that is my standard operating procedure.

  Neither is standing fully clothed in ankle-deep water with my bare toes inches from those of a shirtless ship captain.

  Jonathan watches me through rising steam with a look one could most accurately describe as befuddled.

  Then he smiles, and my stomach rolls in a big, sloshy somersault. “This is quite possibly the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Do you need help rolling your jeans a little higher?”

  He quirks one eyebrow. “That will make it less weird?”

  “No, but it’ll make your jeans less damp.”

  He doesn’t have a response for that, but his bemused look leaves me smiling, too.

  Or maybe that’s the sight of all that bare skin. Jon had his shirt off before he reached the bathroom, and I certainly wasn’t going to suggest he put it back on. To insist that my self-care bath idea was purely innocent.

  Mostly.

  I let my eyes travel the broad expanse of his chest, the solid ridges of his abdomen. Four small incisions mark the spots where the transplant team inserted laparoscopic tools and cameras. There’s a bigger scar below that where they extracted the kidney. That’s another thing I never knew; that donors have the kidney extracted from the front. I’ve learned a lot these past few weeks.

  I bite my lip and meet his eyes. “Does it hurt?”

  He looks down like he’s seeing the incisions for the first time. Like he’s forgotten they’re there, or never noticed he has the world’s most perfect torso.

  With a shrug, he meets my eyes again. “Not really. It mostly feels like I did a thousand crunches at the gym.”

  His abs are a testament to that, but I bite my tongue. “The paperwork said there’d be a lot of swelling. I’m not seeing it.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of swelling.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, I didn’t mean that to sound dirty.”

  I hadn’t heard it like that, which is surprising since my brain has been steeping in sex from the moment I walked through his door. “I don’t see swelling at the incision sites,” I point out, determined to keep this as clinical as possible. “I don’t even see stitches.”

  “The stitches are mostly internal. They used some kind of surgical glue on the outside. I get to peel that off ten days post-op.”

  I want to feel it. Want to run my fingers over those smooth ridges of abdominal muscle. Never in my life have I had a greater urge to touch another human. A male human. Very, very male, and quite possibly not human.

  How can anyone look this good with his shirt off?

  “Are you grossed out?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “By the scars. It’s a little weird seeing them.”

  “Oh. No. Not at all.” Jesus. “You look good to me.” I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans to keep from reaching for him.

  Jon grins like he knows what I’m thinking. Then he leans down to adjust the taps, adding more heat to our bathtub mix. His face is turned away, but I see him wince.

  “Let me get it,” I tell him.

  “I’m okay.” He straightens and looks around his bathroom. “So this is a self-care bubble bath.”

  “Maybe not a normal one,” I admit. “The paperwork says you’re not supposed to submerge the incisions. I thought we could just sit on the edge and soak our feet.”

  He laughs and scratches the back of his neck, making his abdominal muscles ripple. I curl my fingers deeper into my pockets and order myself to keep breathing.

  “Blame Bree,” he says. “She’s the one who picked out the vintage clawfoot tub with no edges for sitting.”

  “Maybe I could find a bench or something.” I glance around the bathroom, but there’s nothing the right height. “Sorry, this isn’t how I pictured it when I suggested this.”

  Slowly, he reaches out and catches my left wrist in his palm. Then the other, peeling my hands out of my pockets. Lacing his fingers through mine, he smiles into my eyes. “This is perfect. I’m more relaxed already.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He might be humoring me. I’m not sure. So much nuance can be lost in translation.

  The water’s still rising, climbing the backs of our calves. It feels scandalous to stand here in my jeans and this thin little cami top. At least the light is muted, flickering with a half-dozen little battery-powered candles I found on a shelf outside the bathroom. Bree’s touch, I’m sure.

  The c
rackling fire is all mine, procured from a YouTube video playing on my iPad beside the sink. I tried to think of everything.

  “It’s all about ambiance,” I explain. “To help get you into a positive frame of mind.”

  He stares at the scoop-front of my cami top and nods. “Nailed it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lifting his gaze to mine, he gives a sheepish grin. “I’m probably not supposed to address my compliments directly to your breasts.”

  “I think that ceased being true when I took off my top to coax you in here.”

  “Good point.” He grins. “I’d climb onto the roof and follow you off the edge for the opportunity to admire your cleavage for five seconds.”

  That is possibly the best compliment I’ve ever received. Also, not medically advisable for a guy recovering from major surgery.

  “It’s just a camisole.” I tug at the lacy neckline, still shocked I did that. “I wear them under button-up shirts for modesty.”

  He laughs and lets his eyes linger over my breasts. “If this is modesty, I’d love to see your version of immodest.”

  I’d love for him to see it, too. I’d love to rip off my top and press his face into my breasts and—

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” My cheeks are hot as I stretch out to grab two champagne flutes off the counter. I found them in the hallway minibar, along with an unopened pint of half-and-half. “Sorry it’s not champagne,” I tell him. “It says on page three you’re not supposed to have alcohol right away.”

  He smiles and takes a sip of half-and-half. “Did you really read all the discharge instructions?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I skimmed.”

  I sip my own glass of half-and-half and wonder if I should have gone with tap water. I thought this would be more decadent, but it might be adding to the weird element. “I think the alcohol restriction is more about contraindications for pain medicine.”

  “Which I’m pretty much done with,” he says. “I’ve been doing fine with Tylenol since day three.”

  “Impressive.” I’m looking at his abs again, which are even more impressive. I order myself to meet his eyes, then I wish I hadn’t. The dark green irises are filled with heat, and my mouth goes dry again.