The Other Side of Us - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,56
so much and start acting. Maybe she needed to seize the bull by the horns and simply get over herself.
She laughed, the sound half scared, half amused as it bounced off the tiles. Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for the razor. She shaved her legs and under her arms, then got out of the shower and patted herself dry. She rubbed vanilla-and-orange-peel-scented lotion into her body and spritzed perfume onto her breasts. Then she brushed her teeth and wiped the condensation off the mirror and reached for her makeup bag, going all out with the eyeliner and mascara.
She walked into her bedroom and spent considerable time pawing through her underwear drawer, looking for something that wasn’t cotton and practical. She found a matched bra-and-panty set made from see-through black mesh, the panties high cut with lace detail in strategic places.
Sexy. She hoped.
She pulled the underwear on. Then and only then did she turn to face the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door.
Her gaze gravitated immediately to the ugly scar that ran between her hips and around her right side. Her focus lifted to the twisted mess that ran from her left shoulder and around her upper arm. Finally, her gaze came to rest on the dark puncture scars on her rib cage, relics from where her fractured ribs had broken through the skin.
None of it was pretty. The scars weren’t old enough to have faded, despite her religious use of rose-hip oil to promote healing. The scar on her belly... There was no way a man could avoid contact with it if he was in bed with her. It would be a very present part of any action that took place.
She forced her gaze away from her stomach, focusing instead on her breasts. They’d always been small but the rest of her was, too, and she’d never had a problem with that. Cupped in sheer black mesh, they looked perky and dainty and, yes, sexy. She moved on to her legs. Before the accident, she’d worked hours in the gym to tone them, but rehab had given her muscles that ordinary gym exercises never could. Her legs would never be long and fantasy inspiring, but they were slim and strong and they looked good to her.
So, nice legs and breasts, with some not-so-great bits in between. Given that she’d been minutes from death out on that dark, rainy road, she figured a bit of not-so-great was a light price to pay for being alive. As she reminded herself every morning, she was lucky to be here.
She met her own gaze in the mirror, her chin lifting in challenge.
Was she really going to do this?
She glanced at her body again, then remembered that moment in her kitchen when Oliver had been standing just out of reach, golden and hard and gorgeous.
So damned good...
Yes, she was going to do this.
She turned to her wardrobe and pulled out her skinny jeans and a snug-fitting black sweater. Not siren stuff, but most of her fabulous clothes were in Melbourne. With her black stiletto ankle boots she was almost certain she could pull off foxy.
Technically, she wasn’t supposed to be traipsing about in high heels—her back and pelvis simply weren’t up to it—but she needed the added confidence they gave her and she figured the short walk next door wouldn’t kill her. Plus, she didn’t plan on being on her feet for long.
She grinned at her own bravado as she zipped the ankle closure on her boots. The smile faded as she stood and smoothed her hands down her thighs and inspected her reflection one last time.
She tweaked the neck of her sweater to show more cleavage, then nodded. She looked good. Her eyes were nightclub sultry and there was color in her cheeks. The sweater hugged her breasts, the jeans molded her thighs. The boots gave her a little bit of extra height and made her legs appear that bit longer.
She was ready. Well, as ready as she’d ever be.
Butterflies did a river dance in her belly as she tip-tapped her way to the front door. Smitty kept pace with her, his face turned upward, his expression questioning.
“Sorry, buddy, but this is a solo mission.”
She was about to leave when she remembered something important. She swiveled and walked back to her bedroom. Yanking open the bedside drawer, she rummaged around, hoping against hope that the box of condoms she’d bought eighteen months ago was still there.