Maybe a little.
Okay, definitely blushing just thinking about it.
Gregory appears in the doorway with another steaming pot, and I have to physically restrain myself from just... staring. Because holy hell, the man looks good carrying things. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms cording as he lifts the heavy pot, and he has that little furrow between his brows that always appears when he’s concentrating.
Focus, Sorrel.
Still, he’s the billionaire who’s currently acting as my personal water-hauling assistant, and that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“That’s the last one, then,” he says, pouring it into the tub. Steam billows up between us. “We’re going to have to wait for it to cool down a bit or we’ll poach ourselves.”
“Mmm, human soup. My favorite.” I test the water temperature with one hand. “Yeah, give it ten minutes.”
He sets down the pot and just... stares at me. With that hungry look. The one that makes my stomach do the butterfly and my brain turn into mushy goo.
“What?” I ask, distractedly tucking hair behind my ear. It immediately falls back.
Of course.
“Nothing.” But he’s smiling. Which feels like some kind of miracle given that six days ago he was all scowls and barely contained irritation. Well, maybe I’m being a weeeee bit hard on him. He was actually really nice. If a bit abrupt. And he did nurse me back to health, wash my hair, and all that other wonderful stuff.
“Just thinking about how we ended up here,” he adds.
I grin. “By ‘here’ do you mean the bathroom specifically, or the general life choices that led to us heating bathwater like we’re living in the 1800s?”
“Both.” He steps closer. “Also... thinking about last night.”
Oh god.
My face is definitely doing its redness thing. “Gregory--”
“And how I want to do it again.” His voice drops lower. “Preferably soon.”
Yep.
Dead.
I’ve died.
This is how Sorrel Silva dies.
Death by sexy billionaire voice.
“The water needs to cool,” I manage, which is possibly the least sexy thing I could have said.
“I’ll wait.” But the way he’s looking at me suggests otherwise.
Ten minutes feels like ten years.
I occupy myself by organizing the towels that don’t need organizing. Because apparently when faced with overwhelming sexual tension, my brain defaults to “let’s make sure these terry cloth rectangles are perfectly aligned.”
Gregory keeps impatiently testing the water with his hand.
Finally, he announces: “Perfect.”
“So, uh.” I gesture vaguely at the tub. “That’s... not exactly built for two people. Are we going to fit? Maybe this was a bad idea.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “We’ll make it work.”
