I don’t call his name.
I am way too pissed to be polite.
I slam the door open and yank the shower curtain back.
“YOU WERE NOT AUTHORIZED TO—”
Error.
Catastrophic error.
Cohen is right there.
Naked.
How did you expect to find him in the shower, Sloane?Hush, inner idiot.
Water sliding over his skin.
Broad shoulders.
Defined chest.
Soap running down his torso…
And an expression of shock that’s somehow more dangerous than the scalding water.
He looks like a billboard for… literally anything you’d sell using a gorgeous naked man.
We both freeze.
He’s standing there with one hand midair, shampoo dripping down his arm.
I’m clutching the curtain, mouth hanging open like a moron.
He blinks.
“Morning.”
I stay mute for three whole seconds.
Then I remember I’m furious.
Furious-furious.
I cling to that, because the alternative is focusing on the veins in his forearms. Or the soap. Or—
I pull myself together. Or fake it.
“You. You did not—” I suck in a breath and force myself not to lookthere. I stare at the ceiling (bad idea), then at the corner grout line (better). “Why did you not take me HOME?!”
He runs a hand through his wet hair, blinking like he’s half a beat behind the conversation.
“Answer me!” I jab my arm in his direction… then realize exactly where my gaze is headed and whip around to face the wall. “Did you kidnap me? Did you abduct me? Why—”
“You didn’t give me your house keys,” he says, calm. Actually amused. He rinses the shampoo out. “And I wasn’t leaving you passed out in your driveway.”
I hate him.
