And stop dead.
Eli stands under the wash hose, head tipped back, water streaming down bare skin. No shirt. Just him and the water and late afternoon light turning everything gold.
Heat hits me so fast I forget how to breathe.
He's all lean muscle and sun-darkened skin, water sliding down his back, his shoulders, catching in the hollow of his spine. His jeans are soaked, clinging low on his hips, and I can't—I shouldn't be staring but I can't make myself look away.
My hands clench at my sides. My pulse kicks into a rhythm that has nothing to do with the walk over here.
He shuts off the hose. Silence drops like a weight.
My pulse is everywhere. Throat, chest, low in my stomach where warmth pools insistent and impossible to ignore. Everything feels too warm, too tight.
He rolls his shoulders, slow and easy, water dripping from him in the quiet. Then turns.
Not startled. Deliberate. Like he knew I was there the whole time.
Our eyes meet.
The air between us feels electric. Too close.
Heat crawls up my neck, floods my face. He sees it. I know he sees it.
My eyes drop—I can't help it—to his chest, his stomach, the soaked waistband riding low enough that—
"How'd the meeting go with Cole?"
The words register slow. Too slow.
I blink, trying to process, my brain still cataloging the way water clings to his skin, the way his chest moves when he breathes, how unfairly good he looks dripping wet and half-dressed in barn light.
"I—" I start, then stop.
He's still looking at me. Like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I shift my weight and his gaze tracks the movement. Drops briefly. Comes back up.
I try again. "I—"
Nothing.
Eli doesn't move. Doesn't reach for the towel two feet away. Just stands there, water dripping, and watches me fumble for words.
"I'm sorry," I blurt finally, jerking my gaze away. My face is on fire. "I didn't—I was just—I thought you were—"
I spin halfway toward the door.
Behind me, he laughs. Low and surprised, the sound making my stomach flip.
"It's fine," he says, and I hear fabric shifting as he reaches for his shirt. "You look like you walked in on a crime scene."
I force myself to turn back.
He's pulling the shirt over his head now, damp hair falling forward. Water immediately darkens the collar, makes the fabric cling to his shoulders, his chest.
Still unfair.
"There's showers in the bunkhouse," I say, trying for casual and landing somewhere between nervous and strangled. "You know. With doors."
