Hell, if she doesn’t use that shower head, I might have to.
Equal opportunity, right?
On the counter, is a list of sleep gummies. I’ll definitely be taking advantage of those later. I make a mental note to subtly bring all this up during our pitch. People eat this shit up—customizable comfort, personalized experiences. I can weave it into our presentation, sell the idea that Asher isn’t just offering stays…he’s offeringlifestyles.
I wander back toward the main room, still taking it all in, when I notice a door.
Not the front door. Not the bathroom door.
Aconnectingdoor.
I stare at it, tilting my head slightly?—
and grin.
Clearly, the universe has decided to throw me a bone. Or the gods are drunk and in a good mood.
Either way, I’m not wasting this blessing.
Stepping closer, I press my palm against it, then lean in until my ear is flat against the cool wood.
I can hear her.
Soft rustling, the faint shuffle of clothes, the muted thud of a suitcase being set down. She’s moving around on the other side, completely unaware that I’m eavesdropping like some creep.
What’s she doing?
Better yet—what will she be doing…tonight? Alone. In that big bed. After her shower. In the shower.
No, man.I shake the thought off, and step back before I get blue balls again, or take matters into my own hands.
Needing air, I head toward the sliding glass doors leading out to the private patio. The sun’s casting a glow and painting everything in gold-dusted heat. A hot tub bubbles in the corner, steam curling lazily into the thick, tropical air.
Just beyond it, a long, crystal blue saltwater pool reaches to the edge of the deck. The glassy surface reflects the sky, tinted orange and violet by the dying light. It’s private. Serene. Too calm for the storm building under my skin.
I slide the door open, stepping out just as?—
Rorie does the same.
She freezes for half a second, clearly just as surprised as I am. The layout’s design is meant for families who want the option to drift between spaces. A small partition separates the patios, but there’s an opening—a shared gate of sorts—that leads between both hot tubs.
“Our patios are connected,” I say. I’m an idiot. Of course they are. She can see that. Clearly.
Her eyes meet mine, assessing. She’s deciding whether to acknowledge me or pretend she’s gone temporarily blind.
I lean casually against the frame of my door.
“Well,” I say, my voice smooth and a little too pleased, “Guess fate’s gottwosenses of humor.”
She doesn’t dignify me with a response. Instead, she spins on her heel, storms back inside, and slides the door shut with enough force to rattle the glass.
Can’t say I blame her. If our roles were reversed, I’d have slammed the damn thing twice.
Winning her back won’t be easy. But she’s worth every slammed door. And I’m not going anywhere.
CHAPTER 39
SALT IN THE WOUND
