Page 33 of Sand in My Boots

It’s my turn to be confused. “Don’t do what?”

“Use a towel a second time.”

I take a seat on the plush comforter, securing the knot around my waist. “Because there are plenty of extras in the hotel?” Why else would there be a reason not to use a towel for a second time? Perhaps more than twice.

“Not just here.” Amazement dances in her brown orbs.

“Wait. Is this one of those conversations we’re having in which we don’t know what the other is talking about and we continue to talk in circles?”

“I’m not sure. Is it?” She sets her phone on the bed, her body turning toward me, flashing a quick peek at her bare mound as her legs twist beneath her.

“At home you don’t use a towel a second time?”

“Ew, gross. No. Why would I do that?”

“Because if you hang it up to dry, it’s clean for the next time.”

“No. What if you don’t remember what side you used to dry your ass and then it becomes the side you use to dry your face the next time?”

I can’t stop the chuckle barreling out. Though when her head tilts in astonishment, I cut it off. “But does it matter? Either way, you’re clean. And unless you have other people living with you, it’s only you using the towel.”

To confirm, she says, “Only me. Because in no way would I ever share a towel with someone else.”

Mind blown.

“Never?”

“No.”

“Not someone in your family? Your mom? Dad? Boyfriend?”

“Not even then.”

Bewildered, I slump back against the headboard. “I can’t understand why.”

“I already explained it. Besides, maybe it’s not for you to understand. Is it bothering you?”

Girl has a point.

“You must have to do so many loads of towels. How many do you own?”

Her face flushes a bright red. It’s not me who’s ever questioned her.

“I have the space for all of them, so again, why does it matter?”

It doesn’t. But the part of me wanting to know her on a deeper level—more intimate than our sexual encounters afforded us—needs the answer.

“I own five towels for my showers and about a dozen for the pool and the beach. What about you?”

“Why five? Who owns an odd number of towels? They come in pairs.” Though she’s the one who’s judging me, her nose scrunches up.

“One met its demise in a freak plumbing accident.” She opens her mouth for more, but I shush her with my finger on her mouth. “If you think I’m giving up more to that story, you’re wrong. At least not until I know how many shower towels you own.”

When she gives her answer, she’s going to be disappointed. That story is staying locked in a vault, and not even Juli Langley is going to free it.

She stays quiet for a short while, her fingers twirling in the bottom of her damp, loose tendrils.

“Is it more than ten?” I prompt.