“Sorry, I thought this wasmybathroom,” I yelp, now spotting Leo’s soap bag next to the sink. “Oh my god.Sorry.”
“Olive,” he replies, his eyes softening. It is the hint of tenderness on his face that snaps me out of the moment.
I rush out the door and jump onto my bed, red-faced.
“I’m so fucking sorry!” I shout.
“It’s a shared bathroom,” he calls out, clearly trying to fake laugh, but it comes out like a high-pitched machine gun. “I didn’t realize. Sorry!”
“I didn’t know either,” I call back again, fake laughing hysterically in return,the picture of Leo’s naked body and huge boner flashing in my mind.
I then hear the banging of what I think is the pole being hastily reerected, followed by some mild stomping, and then, after some time, a knock on the door to the bathroom.
“Come in, Leo,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“The bathroom is all yours,” he says through the door.
“Youcancome in,” I say, but there is no response. “I’m covered up.”
I stand and I walk to the door and open it. Leo is leaning against the frame in boxer shorts and a clean white T-shirt, his hand up on the edge of the doorway. My heart jolts at the distilled sex appeal of this man. I know that sex appeal is subjective. I know that if I put Leo in a room with a hundred women, maybe only a handful would be this attracted to him. But he was made with me in mind, I swear it.
“Can we laugh about this?” he says, grimacing, and then he drops his hand and steps back.
“Sure,” I say, as lightly as I can. And then I add, jauntily, despite my cheeks burning, “Who here hasn’t had a wank in the shower?” I chuckle like a murderous clown, dying a little bit inside.
“I wasn’t...Olive!” He looks absolutely mortified.
“Sorry, I thought...” I look toward his crotch and then bite both my lips together to stop myself from talking.
“You werenakedright in front of me,” he says, eyes narrowing on me again. “I’m only human.”
A compliment of sorts, and I burn with a heady mix of pleasure and mortification.
“Let’s stop talking about this,” I say, catching my breath. “Forget it ever happened. We’re both adults.”
“Yes. Let’s bonfire the last seven minutes,” he replies, with a relieved chuckle.
“Fucking burn it and toss the ashes into the wind,” I reply, looking guiltily over toward Dad’s urn, which I can see poking out from behind the curtains. “Bad metaphor, but you get the pictures.”
His face cracks into a relieved smile. “I have to do this call.”
And then he turns and heads into his bedroom. I watch him go, my heart thundering in my chest. I lie back on my bed and wonder how the hell I’ll sleep tonight.
21
THE NEXT AFTERNOONLeo is outside with a red Vespa and the face of a man who has plans.
“Can I play tour guide?” he says as he tosses me a helmet. It’s a little cooler today, and he’s wearing khaki pants with a tight white T-shirt and an open short-sleeved button-down.
This morning I came downstairs to hear him on a call with a recruiter. I stood in the stairwell listening to him talk; it was clear the job was a pastry chef as part of a chain of hotel restaurants. I hated listening to him selling himself, talking about how he was looking forward to improving his skills with desserts. That no, unfortunately he didn’t have a reference. That yes, he could potentially start soon.
“Where are we going?” I ask, glancing down at my kneelength skirt and contemplating changing.
“Don’t change,” he says with a grin, “you look great.”
I roll my eyes at him, unable to absorb the compliment. And then I move toward him.
“I want to drive,” I say, and he nods, sliding to the back of the seat and motioning for me to get on. I’ve driven a Vespa before; wehad one in London and Dad let me drive it illegally a few times. When I was twenty-five, I bought a secondhand one for zipping around London, but it cost a fortune to keep it running.
