He left so fast. Said he had a call. Yeah, right. That was the smoothest fake exit I’ve ever seen, and I’ve taught five-year-olds how to lie about eating glue.
My heart pounds as I stare at the pool’s shimmering surface. I can still feel the heat on my face. Like I’ve beencaughtdoing something private. Intimate. Shameful.
He probably thinks I’m desperate. Obsessed. Completely unhinged.
Which… fine. I might be.
But I didn’t mean for him toknow.
There’s no way around it. I have to apologize—immediately.Embarrassment claws up my throat, but guilt rises right alongside it.
I head into the house and down the hallway to his room, barefoot, heart racing.
“Ash,” I call out, determined to get this over with quickly.
I open his bedroom door. It smells like him in here—sharp cedar, faint cologne, something warm and clean andverymasculine. I’ve seen his room before. I know there’s a walk-in closet adjacent to the far wall.
He must be in there.
I stride to the door and push it open. “Hey, Ash, I’m really sorry—”
And immediately wish I hadanyinstincts whatsoever.
Because it’s not the closet. It’s the bathroom.
And I’ve just barged in, completely distracted by my mission to make things right—and walked straight into a blast of frigid air… and a full,unfilteredview of Ash Ryder in the shower.
My brain short-circuits.
He’s turned slightly, water running down his back, muscles shifting with every move. His head tilts toward the stream, one hand braced on the tile.
Then he turns.
He sees me.
And for a beat—a horrible, suspended eternity—so do I.
Every. Inch.
And one very prominent inch in particular.
I freeze.
My eyes—traitorous, wide-eyed little monsters—drop before I can stop them. Lower. Lower. Oh god.
He’s hard.
I don't evenmeanto look, but the flash of movement catches my attention before I can tear my gaze away. And now it’s burned into my memory like a cursed gif. Long. Thick.Confidentlypresent.
Ash freezes, too. His mouth opens slightly—like he’s deciding whether to cover himself or lean into it. His hand doesn't move.
And worst of all?
HeknowsI saw.
His eyes meet mine, and something flickers behind them.
Heat. Panic. No—worse.
