“That sucks.”
“It does.”
He leans against the doorframe. “Want me to call the landlord?” he says. “Or I could probably fix it. Not tonight, but…”
“No.” I say it too fast. Then softer, with what dignity I can salvage. “I just need a real shower. If that’s… I mean, if you don’t mind.”
His grin falters. Just for a second. Then it returns, slower, more careful.
“In my place,” he says, like he’s confirming he heard me right.
My face burns. I hate it. I hate him for making my body do this.
“Yes,” I snap. “In your place. I’m not—” I gesture helplessly at myself. “I’m not doing a freezing shower tonight. I’ve had a load of homework and a double shift and I smell like bar grease and regret.” His mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to laugh. I won’t let him. I lift my chin. “So if you’re going to be weird about it, say no now and I’ll go boil water like a pioneer.”
Evan’s gaze holds mine for a beat. Not predatory. Not smug. Something else — steady, warm, a little amused. Then he steps back, opening the door wider.
“C’mon,” he says. “You can use mine. Towels are clean. I did laundry today. Got some spare clothes and stuff in the closet across from the bathroom. Help yourself.”
Relief hits me so hard it almost makes my knees weak, which is humiliating.
I shuffle into his place, using the towel as a kind of body armor. His apartment actually smells nice — clean laundry, coffee, and the faintest ghost of cinnamon from the candle by his TV. The living room is tidy and organized, with shelves full of books and a sports magazine open on the coffee table next to the TV remote. I notice, with a pang of jealousy, that his heating works.
“Thank you,” I mutter, because manners were beaten into me somewhere along the way.
He closes the door behind me, and the click sounds loud in the quiet apartment.
I freeze for half a second.
Because the moment I’m inside, I’m aware of everything.
The warmth. The male scent. The fact that I’m alone with a man I barely know now, wrapped in nothing but a towel, in the middle of the night, in a town where monsters sometimes wear friendly faces.
Evan clears his throat softly. “Bathroom’s straight down the hall, first door on your left. There’s soap and shampoo and stuff; use whatever you want. Seriously.”
I glance at him. His hands are up like he’s surrendering. Like he knows I bite.
“Don’t expect this to become a thing,” I warn.
His smile is slow. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Molls.”
My stomach flips at the nickname he used to call me when we were in high school, and I turn on my heel before he can see it affect me and stalk toward the bathroom like I’m not walking into trouble. Like my entire world doesn’t just shift — one knock, one open door, one line crossed wearing nothing but a towel.
I came here for hot water.
But the heat I feel right now?
That isn’t coming from the pipes.
Chapter Four
Evan
Molly disappears down the hallway, the hem of her towel skimming the bottom of her thighs, her hair a dark waterfall down her back, her presence making the whole place feel smaller, more intimate, like the world shrank to just this shitty apartment. After a quick glance over her bare shoulder, she slips into my bathroom and the latch clicks shut.
A normal man would turn away. Go sit on the ancient, collapsing couch that came with the lease. Put on the TV — a game or a rerun, something, anything to drown out the pounding of his heart. A normal man would crack a beer, pretend he isn’t fighting the urge to press his face to the thin barrier between them and breathe in her soap and listen for those soft moans that are sure to come when she relaxes beneath the steaming hot water.
A normal man would let the girl get clean and leave.
