Page 54 of The Backup Plan

I stare.

At the soap. At the towel. At the water droplets sliding down his stomach like they’re auditioning for something illegal.

Speak, Emery. Say something.

Word. Use words.

“You—” I clear my throat. “Your shower . . . stopped?”

“Yeah.” He grimaces as if I’m not standing here stuttering. “I was mid-lather when it died. Clearly a very tragic and untimely death.”

Tragic. That’s one word for it. Another would be catastrophic—to my synapses, which are not firing.

I step aside before my common sense can object. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Bathroom’s down the—right there. Probably like yours is.”

“Thanks.” He smiles, completely unbothered, and steps inside like this is a total neighborly interaction.

It is not.

I close the door behind him and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment.

Especially the one where I watch him, his very nice back and even nicer ass, leave a trail of water and suds as he moves to my bathroom.

He closes the door and within seconds, I hear the shower turning on.

I sink back in the couch and stare straight ahead.

Do not imagine things, Em.

Do not imagine him without the towel.

Do not imagine steam or skin or being the bar of soap or—

I groan and scrub a hand over my face.

“You are losing it,” I mutter to an empty room. “Absolutely losing it.”

This is what happens when you work too much. When you don’t have a life outside of it. When the last time you explored anything new involved a bar, a bad decision, and waking up sick and scared.

Clearly, I need something more in my life than work and exercise if this is how I react to seeing a wet, toweled man.

But that man is . . . attractive. Sexy. Nice. Maybe a little dangerous.

My phone alerts a text.

Trish: Long time no talk. How’s work? Any sexy players I can look up and stalk for you?

I groan and toss my phone face-down on the couch beside me.

If only you knew, Trish.

The water shuts off and naturally, my pulse spikes. Here goes round two. Because it’s not like he brought any clothes with him so just a towel it will be.

Lucas emerges a few minutes later, towel still firmly in place. His hair is damp, but his body is dry and soap-free. He looks irritatingly relaxed.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Apparently, the plumbing issue that prevented you from moving in early is still an issue. Didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . whatever this is.” He gestures to the tablet and my notes strewn about.

“My thrilling Saturday plans of memorizing my patient notes?” I deadpan. “You’re forgiven.”