The thought of Noah in the shower sends an unwelcome spike of heat through my body. I immediately shove the image away, but it's too late. My traitorous brain has already supplied a vivid mental picture: water sluicing over broad shoulders, steam rising, those muscular arms I definitely haven't been staring at. Large hands running suds along toned abs and down to powerful thighs.
Stop. Stop it right now.
"In and out," I mutter through gritted teeth. "It'll take five seconds, tops."
I unlock the door, the deadbolt clicking open with a sound that seems absurdly loud in the quiet evening. The door swings inward, hinges creaking softly, and I step inside.
Get it together, Rika. You're a grown woman. Act like one.
The apartment is still perfectly tidy, but signs of Noah's presence are sprinkled throughout the place. A hoodie draped over the sofa, a pair of sneakers on the rug by the door. My eyes stray to a book left on the coffee table, pages splayed open and turned upside down.
I close the door carefully behind me, wincing at the sound.
I move to the kitchen, walking on tiptoes like a thief in the night. Like I'm not enough of a creep as it is. On the refrigerator, I spot one of Matthew's drawings. A robot with mismatched arms and a crooked smile, held up with a magnet like a trophy in the middle of the door.
My heart does that stupid thing where it tries to jump into my throat.
Noah kept it. Of course he did.
I force myself to focus. Mr. Gears. I'm here for Mr. Gears.
I grab the stuffed robot and turn to leave. I'm tiptoeing toward the door when I hear the sound of a door opening down the hallway. Then Noah's voice, low and relaxed, humming something off-key.
I freeze.
Every rational part of my brain screams at me to announce myself. To call out a cheerful "Hey, Noah! I dropped in to get Mr. Gears" like a normal person who isn't skulking around someone else's place like a crazy stalker.
But my body has other ideas.
Instinct takes over, and before I can stop myself, I'm pressing against the wall just inside the living room archway, clutching Matthew's toy to my chest like a shield. My wings press flat against my back, my breathing shallow and quick.
This is insane. I'm being insane.
But I don't move.
The humming gets closer. Footsteps pad down the hallway—bare feet on hardwood, soft and unhurried.
And then Noah walks into the kitchen, just to my right.
My brain short-circuits.
He's wearing a towel. Just a towel.
A small white towel slung low around his hips, barely clinging to the sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath the cloth. Water beads on his chest, catching the low light as it rolls down the defined planes of his pectorals, over his abs, and down.
There's a light dusting of dark hair on his chest, trailing lower in a line that draws my gaze south before I can stop myself. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick with muscle. His hair is damp and tousled, and his clean scent makes my knees weak.
My mouth goes dry. My heart slams against my ribs. Every coherent thought evaporates, replaced by a white-hot awareness of his body, of how close he is, of the towel and what it's barely covering.
Say something, Rika, my brain screams at me.Say something before he turns around and sees you hiding in the corner.
I watch the shift and sway of the fabric as he moves, the way it clings to his hips, and my mind supplies images I absolutely should not be imagining: the towel slipping, falling, revealing—
Stop. Stop, stop, stop.
But I can't stop. I'm frozen in place, my eyes tracing every line of him like he's a work of art I'm not allowed to touch but can't look away from.
Noah opens the fridge, reaching for something. I don't know why, but I have the crazy image of him taking out a can of whipped cream, then quickly tamp it down. To hell with my mother and her damned mouth, putting images of Noah and whipped cream in my brain. The movement makes the muscles in his back flex and shift.
