The kind of sigh that makes a woman want to join him, because if he thinks hot water in a shower is great, he should know about a few other things you can do in a shower.
I dial up the volume a little more while I fan myself.
Is the air conditioning not working in here?
Or is there steam coming from the crack between the barn door and the frame? Is that why it’s getting hot?
I can’t seeinthe bathroom, but I can imagine what’s happening in there, and—yep.
That’s the problem.
Me imagining Oliver naked is making me sweat.
I try to imagine him in the tighty-whities, and instead of the slender, almost meek frame I remember, I see tight muscles and a trim waist with a man-V sloping down from his hips, and him grabbing his own?—
What the hell is wrong with me?
I shovel too many Lava Cheese Puffs into my mouth and stare at the TV again.
I’ve lost the plot.
Both of my life and the TV show.
I have myself under control by the time Oliver steps back out of the bathroom thirty minutes later.
But unfortunately for me, he walks out without a shirt on.
And he does, in fact, have one of those man-V’s sloping down from his hips, disappearing beneath his gray cotton shorts.
Much broader shoulders than I remember him having.
Biceps of steel.
No six-pack, but he’s not flexing, so I’m not writing it off.
And his thighs—the definition of his thighs over his knees, beneath the hem of his cotton shorts—if I took a picture and framed it back home in Athena’s Rest, at least a half-dozen old women would call and accuse me of distributing pornography, and many, many, many more people would ask how much to buy a print for themselves.
And don’t get me started on how it’s undeniably obvious that he’s not wearing underwear beneath those shorts.
Did the man run a multi-billion-dollar international conglomerate the past few years, or did he take up training forthat obstacle course show with all of the swinging and jumping and climbing and dodging?
And to have the nerve to walk out of the bathroom with his hair still wet and his face unshaved too?
I try to eat another Lava Cheese Puff and miss my mouth.
“Stop eating on my bed,” he says, sounding bored.
I snatch the cheese puff up and shove it in my face again, this time hitting my mouth. “You gonna want dinner, or was the fish enough for you?” I ask.
He stares at me.
It’s a pointed stare.
Aget out of my waystare.
I roll my eyes and lumber slowly off his bed.
He hits the button on the back of the TV to turn it off.
