Chapter 10
To his relief, Sara returned a few minutes later wearing what looked to be an old t-shirt – as non-threatening as he could have hoped for. Checking the temperature of the water he had running in the sink, Sara nodded. "Now – you do know how to wash women's hair, don't –" her voice dropped off as she realized what she was asking. "Er, that is, you can figure it out, right?" Grissom nodded, amused at her discomfort.
Scowling, Sara fetched a chair from her kitchen table and a pillow from the couch in her living room. She turned the chair's back to the kitchen counter in front of the sink, plopped the pillow down on the seat, and then settled herself on top of it. "Here, I'll even get it wet for you, seeing as how you look so scared of me. But you're doing the washing. This is your fault, mister." She proceeded to saturate her hair, a sight so sensual that Grissom almost swallowed his tongue.
How could the sight of raised arms and running water get him so worked up? He was a grown man – grown men did not experience lust like this at such an ordinary sight. "Baseball scores. Yeah, that'll do it. Recite the stats from '61, Gil."
His recitation was interrupted by an irritated noise from the woman at the sink. "Ahem? Grissom, remember me? The woman whose hair you just trashed? Yeah, now get to work." He did so, slowly running his fingers through her hair. He'd never let Sara know, but Grissom had never washed a woman's hair. Frankly, he had no idea how to handle all this excess of keratin.
He spent the first few minutes getting his hands tangled up in it and apologizing to the hair's owner. Finally Grissom figured out that he couldn't just rub it in great circles atop her head; that only yielded tangles. Sara relaxed, apparently enjoying his discomfort as Grissom scrubbed harder, trying to coax out the flour, which had made a thick, sticky paste upon contact with water. Muttering curses, he was soon reduced to cleaning a few strands at a time with the tips of his fingers.
As much as he hated to admit it, Sara was right – this was a hellish thing to try to get out of hair, and he told her so. Sara only smiled. "Told ya. Next time I bet you'll hold back from playing dirty with me!" Grissom wasn't so sure, if it always meant that he got to deal with a wet Sara. He could get used to this. Well, except the flour part. He'd skip that next time.
Sara raised an eyebrow. Grissom was definitely distracted. His hands were moving, but his face was turned away and he was starting to tangle her hair up again. Scooping up a handful of water, Sara splashed him. He jumped. "What the – Sara! You're the one getting washed, here, not me."
"Yeah, well, you could use a washing yourself. You've transferred a fair amount of flour from me hair to your pants. And no, I'm not going to wash your hair. This is your own fault."
Grissom sighed. "In that case, will you let me use your shower after I'm done with your hair?"
Sara grinned. "Of course. Now, back to work! I still need to be conditioned." Grissom set back to work. The flour was gone, and he reached for the bottle of conditioner, which proceeded to jump out of his wet hands. Its attempted escape landed it in Sara's lap, where they both reached for it. Grissom realized just where his hand was, and pulled back in a hurry, eyes meeting Sara's amused ones. "I don't bite, Grissom. Promise."
Sara smirked. His hand was still dangling in the air a few feet above her lap, and she was pretty sure Grissom didn't even realize she was speaking. Even more strangely, he was wearing that drooling sort of expression that was usually observed on the faces of men much younger and drunker than he. Maybe that drug had hit him a little harder than she'd thought. Mentally shrugging, she retrieved the bottle of conditioner and squeezed a dollop into her hands. As she began to work the cream into her hair, she grinned. "You gonna make me fix your damage by myself, Gris?"
When her voice finally penetrated his rather clogged brain, Grissom harrumphed and snatched the bottle from her hands, returning to work. A few minutes later, he stood back and said, in a voice holding such satisfaction as only a man could have mustered, "There! All done!"
"Gee, Grissom, good for you. But it took you 45 minutes – you need work." She tossed him a smile. Using one hand to twist the water out of her hair, Sara eased herself to s standing position with the other. Grissom struggled to keep his jaw in place. Sara stood in front of him, back arched as she pulled herself out of the chair, wet hair dripping down the front of her shirt, "Wet . . .t . . .shirt . . ." his mind stuttered. Surreptitiously pinching himself, Grissom managed to recover to something resembling normalcy before Sara looked up, but not quickly enough that she couldn't follow where his eyes had been.
She looked down. The damage wasn't all that bad, she decided – the shirt was only wet enough to cling just a little. "You stared at my chest last night too, Grissom. Is this getting to be a habit?"
He had no idea how to answer that. He couldn't help staring – Sara usually hid her beautiful figure, and when it showed through it caught the attention of every male within a 3-mile radius. "Er, yes. I mean no! No, I wasn't starting at your, um . . . your . . ." He noticed Sara's raised eyebrows. When she doubled over with laughter, he frowned and cleared his throat, trying to sound serious.
"Oh just admit it, Grissom, you happen to have male genes; that means you ogle females. You can't help it, it's inborn!"
"I do not 'ogle' females, Sara! Just because I'm male doesn't mean I can't control myself."
"Oh yeah? Then why were you staring at me, genius?"
Grissom's mind worked furiously, but turned out no answers. He sighed. "Because your shirt is wet, Sara, and you happen to be an attractive woman, even though I try to ignore it."
Sara wasn't sure whether she had just been insulted or complimented. This was just downright frustrating! "What the fuck's that supposed to mean, Grissom? You 'try to pretend' I'm not? Oooh, I cannot BELIEVE you! I take care of your drunk ass, I feed you, and you repay me by INSULTING . . ." Her rant was cut off by the shrilling of the oven timer.
Grissom's shoulders slumped in relief. "Let's have dinner. Shall we?" He offered her his arm.
