The realization smacks into me like cold water to the face.
The ferry yesterday. The smooth-talking stranger I fangirled over like a teenager at her first con. The voice that narrates every spicy romance in my earbuds. The one who made Norse mythology sound like foreplay.
He’s here.
In the men’s bathroom of Wilde Charters.
About to use the urinal.
While I stand frozen like a malfunctioning animatronic at a haunted house.
“You all right?” he asks, voice low and rough. Still sexy, dangerous, and Joe freaking Hamilton’s.
My brain is scrambling. Because the second he speaks, his voice crawls right under my skin. Low. Calm. Smooth enough to make me stupid.
“Joe?” I blurt out. “What are you doing here?”
He pauses. Turns slightly. One brow arches. “Wait… how do you know that name?”
Shit. Joe Hamilton is hispseudonymto narrate filthy romance books. The one he definitely wouldn’t expect some random, male-presenting marketing newbie to drop in casual conversation.
I let out a laugh that’s one step away from a wheeze. “I—sorry. I swear I thought you were someone I knew. You look exactly like him.” I gesture vaguely at his whole existence. “Total déjà vu situation.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. But not a frown either.
“Huh,” he says, studying me now. “That so?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, my body humming from that voice. “Creepy, actually. Anyway.” I point toward the urinal like it’s suddenly fascinating. “I’ll let you… do your thing.”
He snorts softly, shaking his head as he turns back around. “Unless you were planning on racing me.”
“Nope. All yours.”
I retreat into the nearest stall and slam the door shut harder than necessary, the sound echoing like a judge’s gavel.
From the other side, I hear a low chuckle. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, face and body on fire, heart pounding.
I almost blew my cover in the men’s bathroom on day one.
Fantastic start, Anita. Truly flawless execution.
What are the actual statistical odds that Joe is here? Does he work here, or is he hiring them?
I hear the sound of a zipper, then water running. He’s washing his hands. This is almost over. I can survive this.
Just stay quiet. Don’t engage. Wait for him to leave.
“So you’re the new recruit?” he says casually, like we’re not in a bathroom together. Like this is a totally normal place for conversation.
My plans of staying quiet evaporate.
Damn, so he must work here to know that? I’m going to have to face him again after this mortifying encounter, yet I can barely stand on my feet whenever he speaks.
“Yeah,” I manage, then remember to deepen my voice. “Yeah, that’s me. Started today.”
“Thought so. I’m Slater.” There’s a pause. “I work here with the guys.”
