I was home free.
... or so I thought for ten, glorious, seconds.
The hinges on the front door squealed as I got to the bottom of the stairs—reminding me of another to-do list task.
And bringing me face-to-face with Hayden Lewis.
Butt naked.
4
Hayden
“How did you get in here?”the very naked man at the foot of my father’s stairs asked, eyes wide, hair a wet mop, droplets of water dripping down…
Don’t look.
It took a lot of willpower not to. I hadn’t been kidding with Marissa when I said I hadn’t seen a naked man in person in alongtime. And this one was toned and tanned and traffic-stoppingly gorgeous, deep set amber eyes nearly glowing in the sunlight streaming through the door behind me.
He was perfect.
“I… live here,” I said, thoughts racing about this beautiful specimen of manhood in front of me and why he wasnakedin mydad’s house.
There were only so many reasons for that, and the list was short.
The naked man blinked at me.
“But you’re early,” he said, and I was starting to think this was as uncomfortable for him as it was for me.
“My flight got moved up,” I explained, the feeling that this was a weird conversation to be having while he wasstanding there nakedtickling the back of my mind.
We were probably both in shock.
“Towel,” he announced, throat working as he swallowed.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
I barely resisted the urge to screw my eyes shut so my gaze didn’t flick further south than it already had.
“Towel?” I asked.
“Towel,” he confirmed, turning without another word.
My willpower crumbled, and I watched the most perfect ass I’d ever seen disappear into the back of the house, heading for the laundry and the mudroom.
Great.
My dad had a cute boyfriend, and I didn’t.
I left my hastily-packed suitcase in the entryway and headed for the kitchen, finding it completely transformed from the last time I’d seen it. New worktops, new cabinets, new windows, a whole new set of French doors where the wall used to be.
This was the thing about Dad being an architect. He couldn’t leave the house alone.
I pulled a mid-century bar stool—the real thing, not a reproduction—out from under the breakfast counter and sat heavily, taking in the cool, dark marble of the worktops.
My fingers traced idle patterns on the surface, imagination running wild as I thought about how much space I’d have to temper chocolate here.
Did Dad know that? Were these marble tops forme, because he knew I used them, or did they just go with the decor?
