The doorknob turns.
Cohen goes pale.
So do I.
Shit. I left the bathroom door wide open.
OH GOD NO.
His eyes go wide, and he doesn’t waste a single second.
He grabs me by the waist, hauls me into the shower, and flips the water back on.
Warm water crashes over both of us.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers against my ear.
He braces an arm across my front so I don’t slip. I slam both hands against his side on instinct—huge mistake, wet skin, hot body, brain fried.
The mystery man is right outside the curtain.
“I’m in the shower, Nate!” Cohen calls, voice totally neutral.
Oh, great. Nate.
His manager. Direct line to my father’s team.
Perfect.
“What the hell happened to you? What are you doing?”
Cohen slaps his hand gently over my mouth without even looking.
His palm is hot.
My face is on fire.
“Nothing! Stop being nosy,” he answers, like he’s not naked, under the water, with me plastered against him like some forbidden accessory.
“It is my job, Cohen. Besides being your fucking friend. I'll wait downstairs, we really need to talk,” Nate says, and we hear the door close.
Silence.
Water thundering around us.
Zero air in my lungs.
Cohen’s hand slowly slides away from my mouth.
It’s the water. It’s just the water. He’s not doing it on purpose. Right?
I don’t move.
He doesn’t move.
Every inch of me is buzzing.
I hate this feeling more than anything.
