But then a moment later, a deep rumble starts up somewhere in the house.Generator kicking in, my brain supplies helpfully, because at least my scientific knowledge is still functioning even if nothing else is.
The lights finally flicker on.
So that I’m standing there exposed in front of him once again, my arms still crossed protectively over my sports bra.
“I’ll turn around,” he says. “Get changed.”
He actually turns his back and gives me privacy, which is possibly the kindest thing anyone has done for me all day. Besides letting me in so I don’t freeze to death.
I peel off the rest of my wet clothing as fast as my numb fingers will allow, including the sports bra that’s basically a second skin at this point. Everything is soaked. Everything. I’m standing there in a stranger’s foyer in just my underwear, shivering violently, and all I can think is that this is definitely not how I imagined my doctoral research going. That and, how I’m thankful I didn’t decide to go commando under the sports bra today.
I pull on the sweatpants he brought earlier, which are about six inches too long and require rolling at the waist and legs. Thenthe hoodie, which smells like expensive cologne and woodsmoke andmanliness...
Don’t go there!
Still, the fabric is soft and warm and I want to live in it forever.
“You can look now,” I say quietly.
He turns back around, his eyes doing a quick assessment. I must look ridiculous, drowning in his clothes, my hair wet and tangled, my face probably blotchy and red.
But I’m warm. That’s what matters.
Except my filter has apparently frozen along with the rest of my brain functions, because what comes out of my mouth is: “You smell really good for a butler. Has anyone ever told you you look like a Calvin Klein model? Do rich people hire hot staff on purpose or is that just serendipity?”
The silence that follows is absolutely deafening.
Did I just...
Did I really just...
Oh God I did.
I really said that.
Out loud.
Just delete me.
Please.
He’s staring at me with this completely unreadable expression. Not quite confused, not quite amused. Maybe slightly concerned about my mental state.
“You’re delirious,” he says finally. “Let’s get you warm.”
“Right. Yes. Delirious. That’s what that was.” I’m nodding like a bobblehead. “Definitely hypothermia talking. Not me. I would never. That was the cold talking.”
Please let me die.
Quickly.
Desperate to recover some shred of dignity, I dig into my wet pant pocket and pull out my wallet. Or what’s left of it. I extract a crumpled, soggy twenty-dollar bill. Literally all the cash I have on me. I hold it out to him with shaking hands.
“Here. For your trouble. For the floor and the mess and all the stupid things I said.”
He stares at the twenty for a long moment. Then looks at my face. Then back at the money. The silence stretches out, excruciating.
“Keep it,” he says finally, not touching the bill.
