“Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?” I joked, my voice becoming steadier.
He stood without comment and I dropped my hands from his shoulders. Then he peeled my soaking coat away, draped it over his arm and with my soaking boots in his hands, left the room.
Before I had the chance to snoop, he returned with a thick towel and wrapped me in it like a human burrito.
“Why don’t you take a shower? Save your limbs.” He nodded toward the hall where his laptop bag leaned against the door. “Bathroom’s down there. I’ll bring you something dry.”
When I hesitated, he added, “Or you want to sit here naked?”
I kept my mouth shut and marched toward the bathroom, leaving puddles in my wake.
Ten minutes later, I was wrapped in a fresh towel, skin flushed from a scalding shower, and toes buried deep in a plush rug. I smelled like John’s soap—pine, cedarwood…and money.
The heat had brought back my circulation. Unfortunately, it also brought backclarity.
WHAT THE FUCK, NORA?
What the hell had I been thinking? Skulking around on John’s porch? Spying on him like some kind of deranged fan? Telling myself that I am totally not obsessed with him?
Maybe I could squeeze myself through the porthole window and disappear forever. The idea of facing him now and having to explain myself was worse than jumping back into the cold.
I stepped over the pile of wet clothes and did what any normal person would do when suddenly naked in their enemy’s bathroom.
I rummaged through his cabinets.
And only when I felt that weird flash of satisfaction did I realize what I was really looking for: signs of a second toothbrush. Of someone else.
God,Nora.
If I hadn’t fallen into a lake, I’d swear I’d hit my head.
A knock.
“Are you done snooping?”
Panic gripped me. I scanned the walls for cameras—but no, there were none. Becauseobviously. What kind of psychopath puts cameras in their own bathroom?
No. John just...knewme.
Which was worse. Scarier than being watched while washing your armpits.
“Like I care if you have hemorrhoids,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
A pause.
“I brought you some dry clothes.”
I cracked the door just wide enough to extend my hand. He passed me a bundle, gaze politely turned away.
“They may be a little big,” he said.
“I’ll make it work.”
Once the door was firmly locked again, I toweled off my bob and pulled on the clothes. “Shirt” was a generous term—it was more of a tent. Dove gray. Soft as sin. Definitely cashmere.
I pressed the fabric to my face before I could stop myself. Inhaled. Freshly laundered, but still undeniably him. Clean and expensive and somehow infuriatingly comforting.
I caught my reflection in the unsteamed patch of mirror.
