None of this makes sense.
A creak sounds from the bedroom. My eyes go wide when I realize it’s a door. I crawl closer to the tub to stay out of sight.
His face glows green. “Get in.”
I glance at the tub. There’s no way there’s enough room for both of us. I shake my head, my voice low when I point out the obvious. “It’s not big enough for two.”
“It’s bigger than it looks,” he whispers. “Unless you want whoever is out there to know you’ve been snooping.”
I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for a quiet corner in a house filled with raging college students. Like him.
I take his advice anyway because I don’t want to get caught. Excitement licks my limbs because it’s only us in here, andsomething about it thrills and scares me all at once. Honestly, it kind of reminds me of our first encounter. He sits up, holding the curtain to the side carefully to prevent the hooks from grazing the rod and giving us away. I carefully duck under his arm and squat where, surprisingly, there’s just enough room for me to fit.
He moves the curtain back in place quietly. His finger moves to his lips, and I get the message he’s conveying. No talking.
My breathing grows heavy as I sink lower into the tub. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’ll suffice. Voices come from the bedroom, but it’s too hard to make out who they belong to. The door slams shut a minute later.
I don’t dare speak in case whoever is out there comes back in, and it seems silly, to be hiding like this when the priorities at a party are getting drunk or lit, and fucking around. I don’t think anyone would care if they found me. Not unless it was Fletcher, in which case,shudder.
“I think we’re in the clear,” Colson says a minute later, turning to look out the thin opening where the curtain doesn’t meet the wall.
That must be how he saw me.
It’s darker behind the curtain than it is out there, and I revel in the way it relaxes me to be hidden like this. This is so much better than the pandemonium of the first floor. Webber’s questions. Sylvia’s slurs.
He tips his head back and links his hands over his belt buckle. His legs, drawn together, lean toward the wall, whereas mine brush against the shower curtain. A fresh scent falls over me, a combination of laundry detergent and a subtle spiciness. It’s different from Webber’s expensive cologne and tempts me to inch closer. To breathe in more.
Heat licks up my spine, and like that first time we met, an intensity forms at the apex of my stomach. I choose to ignore it. “How long have you been up here?”
“Not long enough.”
“When did you realize it was me out there?”
He looks at me. “Since you asked God to tell you what to do.”
He heard that? Embarrassment overlays the buzz I’ve come to realize is attraction. I am wholly, and shamelessly, attracted to the man in front of me. My stomach flips with nerves, and I’m unsure what to say.
“I know why I’m up here,” he says. “Why are you?”
I glance down, playing with the hem of my shirt. When I look back up, his eyes are on my sheer top. I always thought this shirt was cute but sharing a tub with him has me questioning how provocative it might be.
He looks at me as if he can see through not just the sheer fabric, but the basic black bra underneath. It’s a heated look that I’m curious if I’m imagining with the low level of light available to us. Maybe it’s nothing at all. Maybe that’s how he looks at everyone.
“Same as you,” I tell him. “For the quiet.”
“That all?”
“What do you mean?”
He clears his throat. “I saw Webber with you. You two have history.”
I can understand why he thinks that. He watched my ex come up next to me and lay a palm on my waist as if he were trying to claim me the same day we met.
“We were together, but not anymore.”
“Hmm,” is how he responds.
“I can feel your judgment, you know.”
