Do we, doctor? Do we?
I shake my head, willing the horniness to fall out of my ears. I need to get a grip, real fast, or I’ll have to quit before I even meet Lily—or New York, for that matter. I’ll have April send me postcards from the places I never got to see.
“Yeah, of course,” I say instead, shoving my hormones back in their cage. “He messaged me too. Remind me again what time the reservation is?”
I leave him and his answer at the door, turning around to rummage through my bags. Makeup, toiletries… Hmm, where’s my exfoliating cream? Maybe I can scrub away these pervy thoughts.
It might be my imagination—or wishful thinking—but I feel his eyes on me. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly self-conscious about my ass being up in the air when he startles me, saying, “You don’t need to haul an entire suitcase to the bathroom. I’ve got you everything you need there. April supervised my visit to the store, so I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Did she now?” I smile. That’s sweetandunexpected. “Were there any breakdowns in the skincare aisle?”
He snorts. “More than I care to admit. But I survived, and now you have a toner. Not that I know what it does.”
I glance at the bags in my hands, then back at him. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
“You’ll be living here for the next few months, Mia. The least I can do is make you comfortable.” His eyes capture mine and hold me there. I haven’t decided if the speckles in his green irises are blue or gold. I don’t think it’s safe to stare too long to figure it out.
My instincts urge me to fight his hold on me, so after a torturous second or two, I blink the spell away and focus on something else.
I pull a few outfits out of my case to straighten a bit on hangers and set their matching shoes by the bed. “Again, that’s very kind of you. You didn’t need to bother with all that.”
“Not a problem. Anyway.” His voice cuts through my hazy brain. Dr. Preston drops his arms from the doorframe, and that deflates me a little. It was as if he wastrapping us both in here, and I liked that more than I care to admit. “Everything you need is in there. And more, probably,” he reiterates.
“Thanks.” I gather my essentials: toothbrush, golden under-eye patches for the jet-lag puff, favorite body oil, and the shampoo I’d die before switching brands. I stop when my hands shake so bad, I’m one slip away from a toiletries avalanche.
“I’ll be done in thirty minutes. Just need to finish my run.”
“Is that how long I have to shower?” I ask, skeptical.
“Why? Do you need more?”
In his defense, he sounds sincere, totally unaware I need at least double that. While he waits for an answer, the doctor grabs the edge of his shirt to dry the sweat from his forehead—I know I should look away, but I don't. Instead, I get a full view of his abs’ abs.
That’s right. His six-pack has six-packs. And I do mean approximately. Although I try to get to the actual number, my brain short-circuits somewhere between ‘obliques’ and ‘holy hell’.
By the time he pulls the T-shirt down, I feel like I’ve been microwaved on full power. I’m sizzling, still spinning, one beep away from exploding. My skin feels so hot, it might as well be melting off my bones, and I’m half expecting the smoke alarm to blast off. At the very least, I’m going to need burn cream not to be left with permanent scars.
“No, that’s fine. I’ll manage,” I lie through my teeth and hope for the best. I just really need him gone. And I need that shower too. More than ever.
“Okay, then, I’ll leave you to it and go hit the treadmill.” He taps once on the doorframe, and I hear him sprinting down the stairs. Maybe that’s to keep his heart rate up.
* * *
My pulse races too. Difference is, I’m standing still, rooted to the floor where he left me.
I shower the flight off my body and slide the fogged glass open, reaching for a towel—except there is none.
What. The. Hell.
I twist my hair, squeezing out as much water as possible, then run my hands briskly over my arms and legs, sweeping away the lingering droplets. I’m trapped in a tempered glass cage of wet humiliation.Do I air-dry like a heathen?I step out onto the bathmat and walk while dragging my feet over it in an attempt to not leave a wet trail behind me. I curse under my breath as I check the cupboards.
Nothing. Not a single towel in sight.
“All the stuff I need?” I all but yelp as I fling open a cabinet again, as if a towel will magically appear just to save me from this indignity.“All the stuff I need?”In what universe does that not include a towel?
I crack the bathroom door open and yell, “Dr. Preston?” Nothing. Just my voice bouncing back at me. Great, now the house is mocking me too. Fantastic.
I glance at the toilet paper roll. One. Single. Roll. Not nearly enough to cosplay as a mummy on my way back to my room.
