“Let the healing begin.” I grab my mask applicator and smear a big dollop of purple cream across his forehead.

He closes his eyes as though I might somehow get the thick paste in them. I fight the urge to kiss the tip of his nose. I seriously need to get a grip. Working faster, I concentrate on the task at hand.

“There!” I sit back and inspect my work. Rye has a nice coat of purple covering his forehead, nose, and cheekbones. “Now just relax.”

He frowns, creating purple valleys over his forehead. “It’s not going to melt my face off, is it?”

Rolling my eyes, I toss the applicator brush in the sink. “Yes, that’s exactly what it does. When we skincare lovers get tired of having faces, we reach for this stuff. Instant Wicked Witch of the West meets water.”

His lips purse at my sarcasm.

“And stop making faces.” I set the timer. “You’re cracking the mask.”

He exhales in a long-suffering sigh, but I know he’s enjoying his “spa” time. His body is loose and relaxed, his hand idly gliding up and down my waist. Humor gleams in his eyes, made bright blue by the surrounding lavender cream.

“You have a bit on your beard.” Leaning forward, I rub my thumb over the spot. He catches me with his teeth, gently biting down before letting it go.

“Animal.” Laughing, I snatch my hand away.

The mask cracks like a drying riverbed as he grins. With an exaggerated growl, he grasps the back of my neck and hauls me forward. His kiss is greedy and messy.

Squeaking, I push off him. But I’m laughing. I can’t help it. Playing with Rye is the kind of fun I rarely allow myself.

He chuckles, totally unrepentant, eyes alight. Shaking my head, I towel off the smudges of purple he left on my face and then tidy his mask. He grins the entire time, his hands roving as though he can’t stop himself from touching me. I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it.

“It’s all in your beard now.” I rub away a clump. “Honestly, Rye. This beard is out of control.”

That has him frowning. “You don’t like the beard?”

Leaning back a little, I study his face. The strange thing is that I really do like it. Rye has the kind of strong features and square jaw that hold up well to a beard. Coupled with his dark-blond hair, fierce blue eyes, and dark tats, he reminds me of a marauding Viking. And I love the feel of it against my skin, between my legs, or tickling the corners of my mouth.

I suck in an unsteady breath. “Two weeks ago, I loved it.” My thumb touches a scraggly bit that threatens to overtake his lip. “But it desperately needs trimming and grooming.”

The frown sinks deeper into his eyes, and he glances away.

“I’m surprised you even have one,” I say, pushing for lightness. “I distinctly recall you complaining that you hated beards because they make your face itch.”

The thick columns of his thighs tense beneath me. “Felt like a change, is all.”

His tone screams, Back off! But there’s something in his eyes that has me looking closer. It’s fear. He’s afraid. Rye is never afraid.

“You’re usually fastidious when it comes to grooming.” Sure, he’s been a wild child, drank his way through the first three years of fame, has done a bunch of stuff I don’t even want to think about. But Rye is never a slob.

His gaze narrows. “It’s just a beard, Bren. Let it go.”

Gently, I rub the curve of his neck where it meets his shoulder. “I’m just curious. It isn’t like you to be so untidy.”

A long, harsh breath leaves him, and he carefully but firmly moves me off his lap. “I’ll get rid of the fucking beard, all right?”

“I didn’t ask you to get rid of it.”

Rye stands, reaching for the washcloth. With brisk movements, he wets it and starts cleaning the mask off his face. “I’m gonna head out,” he says when he’s finished.

“You’re leaving? Because I asked you about your beard?”

“No, because you won’t let it go.”

I can’t believe this. I stare at him in amazement. “It was one freaking question.”

“It was more than that.”

“Okay, fine. I didn’t let it go.” I lift a hand in frustration. “Only because I don’t understand. You’re freaking out because I asked why you don’t groom your beard.”

He snorts derisively. “What are you, a beard detective?”

“Yes. I have a badge and everything. My unit specializes in unchecked beard growth violations.”

His glare is cutting. “Cute.”

“I thought so, yes. Now answer the question.”

“I don’t give a shit about the fucking beard!”

The force of his anger has me stepping back, shock prickling along my skin. “Why the hell are you yelling at me?”

He grimaces. “I didn’t mean to shout.” With that, he moves past me, shrugging out of the robe and tossing it on the hook by the door.

I gape as he strides away, his beefy butt flexing with each angry step.

“You’re seriously leaving?”

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.”

He’s being a dick. I should let him go. But I can’t. Not when I’ve upset him in a way I don’t understand.

I follow him into the hall. “Rye.”

Gloriously nude, and clearly not giving a fuck, he heads for his clothes. “Shit,” he says when he realizes they’re still in a wet heap by the door. He reaches for his jeans anyway, snapping them in an attempt to untangle the legs.

“Rye, stop. Don’t go like this.”

“Look, it’s all good.” Viciously, he shoves on his wet jeans. “I’ll call you later.”

Maybe I should back off. He’s vibrating with agitation, a dull flush rushing up the back of his neck. But the deep creases in the corners of his eyes and the pinched look around his mouth speak of hurt. I don’t know what to do to make it better.

He reaches for his boots but stops short as if stung. “Shit,” he shouts, recoiling and spinning away like a trapped animal with nowhere to go. “Fucking shit.”

“Rye?” It’s a breathless whisper because his rage borders on panic.

A great shuddering sigh escapes him, and he rests his forehead on the wall. His big, clenched fist presses against the wall as though he’d like to punch a hole through the plaster. But he doesn’t. The long lines of his back tense as he stands there breathing hard and fast.

Slowly, I move to him. He flinches as soon as I touch him, but I keep my palm lightly on the small of his quivering back. “Hey,” I whisper, soothing this time. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are closed tight against me.

Softly I stroke him. “I’m sorry. Okay? You have to know I think you’re gorgeous.”

A laughing snort escapes, followed by a pained groan. “Shit, Bren. It’s not about the beard, okay?”

He takes a breath and then turns to lean against the wall and face me. Red rims his eyes, and he blinks a few times, swallowing hard. “I haven’t shaved because I can’t.”

“You can’t shave?” I don’t understand at all.