"Almost done, Bun." I rub a threadbare towel over her damp curls, careful not to tug. She giggles and stomps.
So. Freaking. Cute.
A pipe juts from the cave wall, spouting fresh water. Its source? No clue—maybe a spring somewhere. Whoever built this place balanced primitive with practical.
Her bath took place in a large brown basin—smaller than a kiddie pool, bigger than any basin I've ever seen. The water's gone gray-pink from scrubbing off the strawberry massacre. The juices had run straight through her outfit.
Since the toddler seems intent on spending as much time as possible in my lap, having long ago realized I'm not a hungry dragon out to eat her, I asked Owen if she needed a bath. The man apparently thought it meant I wanted to give her a bath.
I didn't, but it isn't like anyone else offered, and now here I am—no relevant childcare experience, bathing a strange toddler in a cave after being pseudo (?) kidnapped.
