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“Oh my god, what are you doing in here?!” I wheeze.

I avert my eyes, cheeks flaming hot, and turn around to face the door as sounds of water splashing reach my ears.

Please don’t tell me he’s getting out while I’m still here. I don’t have the strength to endure that sight.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he rushes to say. “I didn’t think you’d be up at this hour.”

I cross my arms over my very see-through bra. Great. Even my nipples aren’t immune to the brief glimpse I caught of his defined muscles. “Don’t you have your own bathroom or something? I thought this one was mine to use.”

From the corner of my eye, I see him reach for a towel. “It is,” he says. “I just—mine doesn’t have a door, and I thought maybe you’d be . . . more comfortable if I used one that locks.”

“You didn’t lock it.”

“Habits. I’m sorry, Charlee. You can turn around. I’m half-decent.”

I do, and frankly, I wish I hadn’t. Because now I know what Oliver looks like in boxer briefs in the morning, his hair damp and floppy on his forehead, his skin still glistening with water.

His eyes dip to my chest before his cheeks turn the same shade as mine must be, and he looks away.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to look.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll go make breakfast.”

“You don’t want to take a bath? I can be out of here in a minute.”

I retrieve my shirt from the floor. “It’s fine. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

I close the door behind me and stride toward my room.

Well, there goes my one chance at relaxing before we leave.

One night. I only had one night here, and I have to deal with this bullshit.

I’ll never be able to get rid of what I just saw. It’s etched in my psyche forever. And that annoys me even more, because the last thing I want to think about is how fucking hot Oliver is.

I yank on a pair of dark leggings, slip into some warm socks, and throw on a thermal top that clings to me like a second skin, tucking it into my leggings.

Then I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge. It’s as if I’ve just opened a portal door and walked straight into a Trader Joe’s or something. It’s stocked to the brim, filled with fresh produce, locally sourced milk and meat, and even farm-fresh eggs. Not a surprise, given his upbringing, but impressive all the same. I didn’t expect him to be the kind of guy who spends hours in the kitchen, and now the images of him cooking with an apron tied around his waist are burned even deeper into my retinas.

“Add those to the list,” I mumble and grab the box of eggs. I crack three and hesitate.

Would it be such a bad thing if I added a few for him? Maybe he would see it as a gesture of good faith. A professional olive branch.

I add four more, whipping the mixture until the yolks and whites are combined. I cut a few tomatoes and add some baby spinach and cheese. Grabbing a pan, I turn on the heat and pour the eggs and other ingredients into the sizzling butter while bacon cooks in the pan next to it.

There. I think this says, “I’m sorry about last night; let’s be professional,” doesn’t it?

I wash my hands and wipe them when my phone chimes.

Emma

Are you awake?

Charlee

Yep. The question is more what are you doing up already?

Her answer comes straight away.